


Bitter Heart, Bitter Heart

by thegreatpumpkin



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-03
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-08-19 08:49:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8198824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegreatpumpkin/pseuds/thegreatpumpkin
Summary: She had loved her brother better once. She had loved them all better once; but too many times she had swallowed bitterness, and now her heart was all sown with ashes and salt. Noble Celeborn, wise Celeborn, shining in his place beside the king! Galathil was reminded at every turn of the ways in which she did not measure up.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elleth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elleth/gifts).



> This is a very, very belated birthday fic for Elleth, still in progress because I MEANT to write a little elf/dwarf meetcute and instead it turned into this Extremely Invested Character Study That Will Never End. Elleth, I know this is not your normal sort of thing, but I know you enjoy worldbuilding and I swear the femslash is coming so I hope it will be enjoyable nonetheless. <3
> 
>  **NB:** While this fic focuses on Galathil as a woman, I don't consider it a genderbend fic. In Tolkien's legendarium, Galathil's existence is definited entirely by family ties--child of Galadhon, sibling of Celeborn, parent of Nimloth. Nimloth's other parent is unidentified. Yes, Christopher Tolkien does refer to Galathil as "Celeborn's brother" in UT, but I don't see any reason why that has to be true, especially if (as I suspect but don't know for sure) Galathil was only mentioned as a name on a genealogy chart. So for the purposes of this fic, she is the daughter of Galadhon, sister of Celeborn, and (eventual) mother of Nimloth.

She had loved her brother better once. She had loved them all better once; but too many times she had swallowed bitterness, and now her heart was all sown with ashes and salt.

Noble Celeborn, wise Celeborn, shining in his place beside the king! Or beside his Noldor lady—sunlight personified—or beside their parents, proud beyond telling of their shining son. Galathil was reminded at every turn of the ways in which she did not measure up; as the younger, the plainer, the more common. Celeborn a scholar while she struggled with her letters, Celeborn a warrior while she was disallowed more than a lady's-knife, Celeborn a calm and respected orator while her words came out sly and vulgar.

She had worshipped him once, like everyone else did, begging for him to carry her on his back or take her riding. And the worst of it was, he had. He’d always been a patient and kind big brother—even through her salted heart, she could admit that he had done nothing to turn her against him. Still, logic could not make a barren field flower, nor love flourish where it had little fuel to burn.

~

They had a kinsman, part Avar, who had been at court in Doriath for some years; he was no one of note. Galathil barely knew his name until he began muttering his discontent—speaking against the troublemaking Noldor enjoying the king's hospitality, and against the unnatural enchantment the queen had ringed the woods with, and against the way the court revered the harsh bright sun and the clear cold moon, forgetting the stars. But she listened. And when she looked into her kinsman’s face, she saw that they were alike: that he, too, had a cup that was down to the bitter dregs, that others drained and spilled but never refilled.

And when he forged a pair of terrible black blades from star-stuff, she knew it was more than the strange metal that made them black. When he gathered his people about him, Galathil made sure to be among them; and when he presented one of the dire black swords to the king, petitioning that they might be permitted to occupy the dark forest outside the Girdle, Galathil did not look once at her brother’s confused, disappointed face.

Nan Elmoth was as much as she could possibly have hoped for. Cool, embracing darkness between the close-set trees, and no expectation of virtuosity. All Eöl asked of his people was _competence_ , and unfaltering loyalty, and these things Galathil could give. If she wasn't _happy_ , precisely, she was perhaps something more valuable entirely: satisfied.

She was accorded no special status because of her kinship with their leader, but that, too, was satisfying. After all, they shared blood with greater men, and that had never afforded either of them any joy. Galathil was not in Eöl's close confidence, but she did serve as one of his guards often when he went abroad from his home—as it happened, she had become a fair hand with a pair of axes, once she was out of Galadhon's disapproving sight to practice with them. She would never be her brother's equal in that, either, but she didn't need to be; all that was required was that she could protect her lord's retinue from the beasts that liked the darkness as well as she did.

Eöl had struck up a friendship with many of the Naugrim. Galathil was uncertain about this at first, until she saw how it affected Nan Elmoth's commerce. The materials they could lay hands on! The prices that seemingly common crafts could command with dwarven buyers! She found the people themselves somewhat lacking—short and ugly, and with a language that sounded more like barking than speaking—but she could not deny the value of their good regard.

She did not particularly enjoy the trips to their territory, but they were part of the work, and thus she undertook them with pride if not pleasure. The mountain made some of her compatriots skittish, but to her the rock overhead felt much like the heavy heads of the trees—protection, not oppression. They came as a delegation of sorts, but only Eöl was permitted to speak directly with their hosts, or to be in the room when negotiations were in progress. Instead, they were left to loiter for long stretches in waiting rooms or empty dining caverns with the dwarven equivalents of their stations, killing time until the important business was concluded and they could escort their respective lords somewhere else.

It seemed a little silly to Galathil—it wasn't as if she could understand a word of that harsh, vowel-starved jabber—but her place was not to question. The dwarves were jealous of their secrets; jealousy, at least, she could understand.

Now they were in what was likely a sitting room, as Naugrim reckoned it, waiting while Eöl dined with a renowned jewelsmith. There were scattered pieces of carven furniture which, Galathil supposed, could be benches or seats if you were low enough to the ground for them. None of the dwarves sat; none of the elves did either.

It had been a very long supper, though. Standards had fallen somewhat by the wayside. Galathil herself was slouched against the wall beside a dwarf she had seen enough times on these trips now to have a gruff, nodding acquaintance with, though they never spoke and did not know one another's names. No one was standing on formality now; very quietly, Galathil took a deep breath and then let it out in a sigh.

The dwarf's mouth twitched.

Perhaps it was only the long wait, the fact that none of them had eaten since breakfast and did not expect to again before very late, the day's parade of meetings and greetings which had been even longer and more complicated than was usual for these visits. But the almost-smile woke some companionable feeling in Galathil. She glanced down and smiled just slightly back, rolling her eyes expansively.

The twitch became a badly-suppressed grin. The dwarf glanced away for a moment, hesitating, then met Galathil's eyes and mimed two people chattering on ceaselessly, one hand representing each. Galathil could not help herself—she huffed a laugh, making a few of her fellows turn and look. She shrugged at them, then slid down the wall to sit on the floor beside the dwarf. They all knew they wouldn't be called upon anytime soon.

The dwarf turned to her, now that they were closer to a height, and made a dwarvish gesture of greeting. Galathil had seen her lord make it often enough to recognize it—arms crossed before the chest, fists closed, a slight incline of the head. "Tarîr," the dwarf said, and Galathil could only assume she was being offered the dwarf’s name.

Well, it wasn't as if there were aught else to do. She returned the greeting in Sindarin fashion, an open palm faced outwards moving from left to right. "Galathil."

"Galathil," the dwarf repeated, and nodded in apparent satisfaction. It was strange; Galathil had never liked how their language sounded, the consonants resonating uncomfortably in her bones like the buzzing of wasps, but somehow her own name rolled through a dwarven accent was more pleasing than it should be. It sounded queer and faraway, like the name of a stranger—not the name of Galadhon's daughter.

Galathil decided she liked it.

"Tarûr?" she said testingly.

Tarîr choked on sudden laughter. "Ta- _rîr_." Galathil wondered what embarrassing thing she had said instead, but the dwarf's laughter wasn't unkind, so she gave it another go.

"TarÎR?"

Tarîr nodded, said something in Khuzdul that Galathil could only guess was _close enough_ , beamed expansively. Perhaps it wasn't the language that Galathil objected to after all. In Tarîr's rich voice, it was less a blunt weapon and more a bladed one, and there was some appeal in the way it struck.

After that the conversation stalled a bit. Mocking one's betters may have transcended language barriers, but it was hard to carry on beyond that with no words in common. Galathil fiddled with a bootlace, awkwardly; Tarîr glanced again at the door that separated them from their respective employers, then sighed as hugely as Galathil had earlier and slumped back against the wall. Minutes passed.

Galathil wasn't sure why, but she kept the dwarf in her peripheral vision. After a stretch, Tarîr reached into a hidden pocket, drawing something out of it; then, taking a surreptitious glance to either side, nudged her gently and held it out.

It was a flask. Tarîr winked, and Galathil covered her mouth to quiet her snort of amusement. She gave a polite refusal—palm up, facing outward—but then, lest Tarîr take offense, mimed her explanation also. She tapped her chest to indicate herself, then sipped from an imaginary cup, then slumped against the wall in her best imitation of a drunken stupor.

Tarîr found this explanation both satisfactory and deeply amusing.

The first word of Khuzdul Galathil learned—barring, of course, Tarîr's name—was _lightweight_.


	2. Chapter 2

She had a letter from her brother.

She burned it. She always burned them, but she read them first. It was the usual: well-wishes, concerns about her living outside the Girdle, the soft and carefully non-judgmental questions about whether an isolated Avari enclave was really the best place for her talents to shine.

 _Talents_ , ha! Ever-optimistic Celeborn, looking for the best in people, believing that every weed could be a flower if only it were given the right soil. Galathil wasn’t even sure what she hoped to read, but somehow she was still disappointed, every time.

It hardly mattered; she had to prepare for the journey, for they would be going again soon to Belegost. It had been some years since the last visit, but Eöl had been experimenting with new alloys and hoped to renegotiate their trade agreements.

The friendship between Eöl and the Naugrim had apparently flourished. So much so that he no longer required his full complement of guards when calling upon his contacts in their cities—he took at most one or two per outing, leaving the rest at leisure until his business was concluded and they would escort him home. Galathil thought that the bitterness in him was less. Not gone, but banked, like the coals of the forge at the end of the evening. Maybe it was his strange new wife—Noldor, but dark, not like Celeborn’s shining lady or her prissy brother. Maybe it was simply that he could breathe easier after the years outside of the disappointment that was Menegroth. Maybe it was even that things with the dwarves were so cordial. Who could say?

Galathil was no less bitter, but the work continued to satisfy her. Nan Elmoth felt ever less like a temporary refuge and more like a home; even the carven halls of Belegost and Nogrod were no longer strange to her. These places belonged to her, in a way. Her parents, her brother, had never set foot in them. Even the King, though he’d been ensnared for many years in Nan Elmoth, had never seen inside the great cities of the Dwarves, for all he was an ally of Belegost.

Galathil had begun pronouncing her name differently. It was subtle, the stresses slightly different, the consonants sharper and the vowels shorter, but her colleagues had adopted it easily enough. She never heard the echoes of Galadhon’s disapproving voice anymore when they called for her, because he had never spoken the name she went by now.

She found herself looking forward to the trip. A change of pace, a different quality of darkness—firelit at the corners instead of tree-shadowed. She could use something interesting to take her mind off of the charred remnants of a letter still smoldering in the grate.

~

Eöl had been summoned to visit a great mansion, someone important; Galathil was his only escort this time. She was surprised to see Tarîr as one of the guards flanking the doors—whoever lived here, she doubted it was the jewelsmith, however well-paid his work might be. The doors were opened to admit her lord; he gave a cursory glance back, and bade her wait there.

Elven guards stationed in such a way would have been unapproachable, but apparently here it was not so; as soon as the doors were closed again, both dwarves relaxed. " _Lightweight_!" Tarîr greeted her cheerfully in Khuzdul, and then in careful, throaty Sindarin: "Galathil. Hello again."

The hairs at the back of Galathil's neck prickled at the sound of it, but it was not an unpleasant feeling. "Tarîr! You speak the elf-tongues now?"

Not so well, clearly—she could almost see the gears working as Tarîr picked through the sentence, extricating meaning like a kernel from the hard shell of a nut. "Bit," the dwarf said at last, laughing. "Low, low bit."

" _Little_ bit," the other guard said, helpfully.

"Yes. Little bit."

"I thought you belonged to the house of the jewelsmith?" Galathil slowed her words down for Tarîr's benefit, though she had no idea how to simplify them. "When last we met?"

Tarîr shrugged. "Not my house, no." The dwarf searched thoughtfully for an explanation, then rubbed fingers together before dropping them into the opposite palm, miming the fall of coins. "More better here."

Everyone said the dwarves were greedy, but it was difficult to picture Tarîr sitting on a mountain of gold. Maybe it was the tidy but well-worn leather armor, or the very modest number of metal beads braided into the tawny beard, but nothing about the dwarf said _extravagant_. Galathil thought, possibly, that Tarîr looked a little rosier and better-fed than last time they'd met, and decided she'd have done the same if it had been her. "Fair enough. I left my last lord too."

"For same?"

"Not quite." There were no simple words for soaking one's heart in brine until it went shriveled and dark. But that was too much to tell a stranger, anyway. Galathil grinned a little, tapping her breastbone. "More better _here_."

Tarîr laughed again, the sharp delighted bark from when they first met. "Good for Galathil! Good for us!" And then added a word of Khuzdul, with great satisfaction.

The second word of Khuzdul Galathil learned did not strictly translate, but was roughly equivalent to: _fuck 'em_.

~

"I’ll give you my firstborn, if you want. Anything, if you’ll take this shift for me."

Galathil snorted and waved a hand. "Your firstborn’s no sort of enticing offer, keep the rascal. My hound causes less trouble and knows to relieve herself outside, which is more than I can say for him. I’ll do it, though."

Meren made a rude gesture and grinned. "I keep trying to pawn him off, but no takers yet. Wait, I mean, how dare you speak of my adorable child like that?" They laughed together, then Meren clapped her on the shoulder. "Regardless, I will do _something_ for you. I know the Naugrim are expected soon, sorry if you get stuck on duty for that. You can call on me any time, really, I mean it."

Galathil shrugged. "I don’t mind." She didn’t.

She'd had another letter from Celeborn that morning. They came fewer now, with more years between, but still they came. She had slid her knife beneath the seal, separating it cleanly from the folded page beneath, but then hesitated.

A breath in, a breath out. Two more.

Then she'd murmured a word softly to herself, a satisfying, emphatic word full of buzzing hungry consonants, and thrown it onto the fire unopened.

Galathil smiled to herself, and looked forward to her shift.


	3. Chapter 3

Tarîr's hair was darker now, like a Doriath Sinda in the winter, and Galathil wondered if that was a function of age. Certainly it could not be seasonal, as the sun was even less welcome in Belegost than in Nan Elmoth.

The dwarf looked drawn and tired, also. Maybe the journey had been difficult, or maybe it was simply the less ruddy light of the forest that made it seem so.

Or maybe it was because Tarîr had changed masters, yet again. Certainly not for the pay this time, Galathil thought. Oh, the merchant seemed well enough off, but nothing approaching the extravagance of the home— _palace_ —she had escorted Eöl to on their previous visit.

After the formalities, she was assigned to guide the dwarves to their quarters. This was, in fact, a pleasure—Eöl had commissioned furniture in dwarf-sizes against future visits, and this merchant and his escort would be the first to see the result. Galathil waited with no small amount of anticipation as they opened the door.

There were exclamations of surprise, a few hasty discussions conducted in undertones; then the merchant said something to Tarîr, who in turn addressed Galathil, smiling.

"Your lord's hospitality does him great credit. Please give him Master Nidi's sincere compliments." And then, in the same diplomatic tone, "And if you come back after the ninth hour when I am released from duty and show me where there is ale in this labyrinth of a forest, I will buy you a whole keg in gratitude."

It was a shock. What had it been—seven years, perhaps? Barely any time since their last meeting. Tarîr's accent was still heavy, slicing through the words like a newly whetted carving knife through a tender roast, but the words were spoken comfortably, as with fluency. Clearly the dwarf had not been idle.

Galathil suppressed her startled laugh, keeping her face carefully neutral. "I will convey Master Nidi's appreciation. May I take it that you are the only translator for your group?"

Tarîr smiled blandly. "Yes, my associates have not much Sindarin. Or none. Mostly none."

"How fortunate for your evening plans! Until later, then."

Galathil reflected, as she left them, and realized that Tarîr's new role was not simply a sideline. The dwarf wore only light armor—in contrast to the rest of the group—and though Galathil did not believe for one second that any dwarf went abroad unarmed, at the least, Tarîr carried no _visible_ weaponry.

Well, well. It seemed Tarîr had chosen a different path—one where words were of more weight than axes.

Perhaps Galathil would follow the dwarf's lead, at least in the short term. She went to speak with Eöl, catching him in the corridor.

"Cousin?" She might have spoken to him as her lord in other circumstances, but in this case, she wished to circumvent the usual channels of formality. She told herself it was not cheating if she was looking out for the interests of their alliance with Belegost. "Master Nidi was very impressed with the accommodations, and sends his thanks."

Eöl frowned at her. "You spoke with them?"

"They brought an interpreter."

His face relaxed into something less suspicious. "They liked the new furniture, then."

"I think it was an excellent choice. They reacted very well." Not an opinion she would have ventured, were she not currently abusing her connections, but never mind.

Eöl nodded approvingly, looking self-satisfied. "The details are important. On such seemingly small things are the greatest alliances forged."

"Such thoughts are why I followed you to Nan Elmoth, cousin," Galathil said, and found she spoke truth, not flattery. Perhaps it was not entirely his familiar bitterness that had set her on this path. "Speaking of details, the interpreter has expressed interest in a tour—it seems Master Nidi will release them all from duty at nine. Not a tour for the whole group, I mean, just something informal for the interpreter." She glanced across at him and smiled winningly. "May I be trusted to oblige? It leaves you with only Demdír to attend you, but I had the impression it would be a quiet night."

"Go on, then, and make sure he’s happy. An interpreter can change much meaning, even when his words are… _technically_ correct." Of course, Eöl's own words would not be misunderstood, since he could speak to them in their tongue, but he couldn't be with them every minute.

"As you say." Galathil bowed and left him, but his words rang strangely with her. _Make **him** happy_. She realized she had been thinking of Tarîr as a woman all this time, though she could not say why it would be so. The dwarf was built very much like every other one Galathil had seen, with a prodigious (if well-maintained) beard, and while Galathil found something more appealing about—his?—face than the others, she couldn't claim it was anything recognizably feminine.

It wasn’t as if she could exactly _ask_.

She supposed it did not matter. It would come up, or it wouldn’t; until then, she would be careful.

At a little after the ninth hour, she rapped on the door of Master Nidi’s suite. Master Nidi would, no doubt, still be at supper with Eöl. Sure enough, when Tarîr opened the door, she caught a glimpse of the merchant’s guards at ease in the background, two arguing amiably over a set of dice and a third asleep in a chair.

"You look as if you could use a drink," Galathil said, and Tarîr’s face lit.

" _Now_ we are speaking common tongue! This Sindarin stuff isn’t so hard after all." Tarîr turned back and spoke a few words of Khuzdul to the guards throwing dice, who called something back in distracted tones, then stepped out and closed the door.

"You’ve gotten good at it since last we met." Galathil grinned, nearly playful. "And you’ve a new master again. ‘More better here,’ hmm?"

Tarîr laughed, looking a little chagrined. "Is that what I say? I suppose yes. I remember forgetting word for _money_." The dwarf seemed to notice something, scrutinizing her in the light of the corridor. "You look well! I never before see you without armor. That is a very fine weave."

Galathil found herself coloring, unaccountably, and quite forgot her question hadn’t been answered. She could have put on something else, but she’d wanted to make a good impression, and most of her clothing was well-worn. "Spider-silk. I think we learned the method of it from Nogrod, though we don’t keep the spiders like they keep the worms, of course. "

Tarîr quirked a heavy eyebrow. "In Nogrod—and Belegost—silk costs too much for guards. Or translators, also."

Ha! Not so diplomatic after all, Galathil thought, and didn't mind as much as she should have. "Here too." She hesitated, then gave the dwarf a conspiratorial grin. "I tumbled a weaver."

Tarîr's face looked less tired when creased with laughter. "Tumbled! New word, that." And then, before Galathil had time to regret saying it— "Let us drink, and you can teach me many more words Nidi regrets me knowing."

There were no taverns, as such, in the settled part of Nan Elmoth. It was more estate than city. No inn either, for no travelers came here that were not personal guests of Eöl's. But there was a small hall where a man sold food and drink to the hostlers and craftsmen and guards—less monotonous food and more alcoholic drink than barracks rations, which made it very popular with the guards in particular. It was there that she took Tarîr, introducing the dwarf around as "Lord Eöl's guest," her expression daring anyone to complain.

"Here's a new word for you," Galathil muttered when the proprietor tried to offer them his poorest wine, " _horse piss_." And then, a little louder, "No, bring us the eau de vie, and some of those little plum cakes." She found them seats at the lowest table—still not dwarf-sized, but Tarîr seemed unbothered. "Watch the drink. It's like a beautiful woman, so sweet you don't know you're mazed until it's too late. Not as forthright as dwarven cider."

Tarîr smirked and sipped from the cordial glass, testing. "Sindarin is like that. Sentences don't tell you what they are about until you are almost at their end. Or never. My people hate that." The dwarf's eyes twinkled, and ringed fingers lifted a plum cake off the tray with surprising delicacy. "Maybe I am—what is the word. Bendy? Soft? I like the drink. And the sentences. I learn them so I can take this position, and take this position so I can travel."

"Not for better pay, then." The cordial _was_ good, better than what Galathil drank when she was alone, and the plum cakes melted on the tongue. Perhaps she was showing off a bit, but what else did she spend her wages on?

"No. Only to get away from Belegost, away from—" the skin around Tarîr's eyes tightened a bit, as if the tiredness came back just thinking of it, but the expression was quickly concealed. "All of it. So much to see with a caravan. Master Nidi is a good one, but not rich. Pay is enough, but not the reason I join."

Galathil struggled with her curiosity. She of all people should know what was left behind was left for a reason, but still, she wondered what hardship had driven Tarîr out of Belegost and put tiredness in the dwarf’s every move.

Tarîr seemed to read it on her, giving her a wry smile. "Don't fall in love, Galathil. Is like taking off your armor in enemy lands and hoping they pull their strikes."

"Oh," Galathil said, embarrassed to have brought it up, looking away to study the bottom of her glass. _That is true enough._

The dwarf, too, looked a bit embarrassed, clapping Galathil on the shoulder. "No, no, bad temper makes for bad advice. Forgive me. Love if you want to! I am sure you are kind to your women. Not like that—" a muttered string of what was probably Khuzdul curses, too low for Galathil to catch, which was a shame given she would have liked to know the words. "Yes, I am sure you are kind. Do you have a woman, Galathil? Your weaver, maybe?"

So she _was_ a woman! Or at least, that seemed to be what Tarîr was saying. Galathil's brief delight at being correct was quickly replaced by surprise at the turn the conversation had taken. Was that—did they talk about such things openly, among dwarves, women loving women? Had she said something to give herself away?

Tarîr misread the confusion as offense. She clapped a hand over her mouth, then immediately removed it again to stutter out an apology. "Oh, no. Forgive me again—I did not mean to—it is hard for me to tell with elves, you braid the same way as your Lord Eöl, and I know he is a man which makes me think—"

Oh. So she hadn’t given herself away after all! Quite to her own surprise, Galathil began to laugh. Once she'd started, she couldn't stop, and soon Tarîr relaxed and began to laugh with her.

"I wasn't sure about you either," Galathil wheezed out, after a long while. "I was trying to be so careful—"

"I too!" Tarîr chortled, her eyes shining with tears of laughter. "But then I thought when you said about the drink being like a woman, that was a sign. Many men say such things."

" _Men_ ," said Galathil scornfully, still grinning.

Tarîr slammed her hand down on the table in emphatic agreement. "What use are they?"

Galathil rested her elbows on the table, leaning in as if confiding a particularly good secret. Then she winked, and whispered the second of her two words of Khuzdul— " _Fuck 'em_."

Tarîr laughed until she choked, and their friendship was sealed.


	4. Chapter 4

"My lord. You called for me?" Galathil had no idea why she’d been summoned. She was off duty, had been meeting with a smith about having her armor refitted when she’d been told to report. By the set of Eöl’s shoulders, she was in some sort of trouble, though she couldn’t think what she might have done.

"Cousin," said Eöl, so coldly that it was clearly not a term of endearment. "I am not your courier nor your go-between."

Galathil was perplexed. "I beg your pardon?"

Eöl drew a roll of fine parchment out of his robes, tied with trailing ribbons and with a pendent seal in silver wax. His expression was deeply displeased. "Your brother wrote to me expressing a concern that you were not receiving his letters, and asked me to make certain this one made it into your hands. Whatever quarrel you have, don’t involve me in it. I won’t tell you twice."

Galathil found herself mortified, accepting the letter meekly. "I didn’t intend—if I had known he would trouble you, my lord, I would have—"

"Dismissed." At another time, she might have balked at being spoken to in such a manner—after all, who was he but the malcontent she had _chosen_ to follow into this forest?—but right now she was feeling too embarrassed to argue, and removed herself without another word.

She would have to reply, if only to keep Celeborn from reaching out to Eöl again. Which meant she would have to open this over-decorated piece of frippery and read its contents. She had an awful notion of what it would contain.

She didn’t dare open it until she was behind the closed door of her own chamber. There, she sliced through the seal (a waste of silver leaf if she’d ever seen one) and tore off the ribbons , burning them immediately just for the catharsis; and then, miserably, she unrolled the letter.

As she'd thought—a wedding invitation. Celeborn was going to marry his golden Noldor sweetheart. Why did she feel so dismayed when it had been inevitable from the beginning? Celeborn, the elder, the handsomer, the sweeter-tongued; of course Artanis had never looked twice at Galathil, not until Celeborn expressed a wish that they should know each other better, and by then it was far too late.

Artanis— _Alatariel_ , as Celeborn named her—had once called Galathil _little sister_. She had no natural sisters, she said, only brothers, and hoped they would be close.

Galathil could still feel the sting of the words in her breast, taste the coppery flavor of misery as she’d struggled to find some response. Bad enough that her brother had everything she had ever longed for—was she to be expected to pretend _joy_ at being defanged and docile, eternally eclipsed, _little sister_ to the radiant lady rather than _lover_? But of course she was. If she'd been who they thought she should be, she'd have been perfectly content, the adoring little sister who never minded being second-best.

She’d bitten her tongue until it bled, and swallowed down the last of her bitterness, and said nothing. And as soon as the opportunity came, she had run.

Why should she be so upset to read this news she’d always known was coming? She thought she’d left it all behind her, let go of all her useless hopes as she settled into the sheltering dark of Nan Elmoth. Galathil found that she was weeping, and loathed herself for it, swiping her sleeve fiercely across her eyes. She nearly burnt herself in her haste to send the invitation up in smoke, roaring a fierce, useless curse at the fire before kicking over the pile of extra firewood laid beside the hearth.

It didn't help. She threw herself facedown on the rug and cried, like a child having a tantrum; and while she hated herself for it, hated the weakness in her that proved them all right, her fury and dismay bled away with the tears until she was left feeling nothing but weary and empty.

In the hollowed-out silence that came after, she rose and washed her face. She poured a cup of water and drained it, then another, emptying the pitcher. She sat at the small table and drew out a sheet of paper, inking a quill. Her penmanship had always been poor, but she wrote very carefully, so that her message would be clear.

_Celeborn of Doriath:_

_I have received your news and offer you congratulations._

_As you can imagine, things are different outside the Girdle, and we are all kept very busy. Answering idle correspondence is rarely a priority, so unless someone has gone to Mandos' Halls, I am unlikely to respond. If you choose to write, do so armed with that knowledge._

_Also, Lord Eöl is the busiest of all of us. I'll thank you not to disturb him with family matters in future._

_Galathil of Nan Elmoth_

She sealed the letter for privacy's sake. Her brother would, no doubt, simply accept it in that infuriatingly calm way he had; but she could well imagine the uproar if someone else caught wind of her discourtesy in responding so to a wedding invitation. She had a signet of her own, grapes and a gannet inside a vesica, but she hesitated to use it—that symbol was for someone she had left behind.

Instead of stamping the wax, she let it cool partway; then, with the tip of her knife, etched the _G_ certh for _Galathil_ , and cut a lozenge to surround the letter.

She told herself she was not beholden to her past, and tried to believe it.

~

Her name was not on the roster.

She checked, and checked again, but the list remained steadfastly Galathil-free.

"Stuck on dwarf duty again?" Thímben patted her sympathetically on the back and leaned over her to peer at the list himself.

"No!" she burst out, before she could help herself. Thímben gave her a dubious look. "I mean...it must be a mistake. I always go."

He snorted. "What’s the matter with you? If I didn’t know better, I’d say you sound disappointed! Don’t study the wrappings, just accept the gift, as they say."

"I...need a change of scenery, that’s all. I wanted to travel for a bit." It sounded weak even to her own ears.

Thímben shrugged, eyeing her as if she might be contagious somehow. "I’m sure anyone would happily trade you to get out of it. The only benefit of going before was getting to drink the ale, and now that they trade it to us by the cask, even that doesn’t make it worthwhile."

Now that was a thought. Galathil checked the list again—perfect, Meren was on it. Meren owed her a favor, even if she _did_ want to go, which Thímben was right in finding unlikely. She struck the name out with a stick of charcoal, writing her own in beneath it, and the low-grade feeling of panic subsided. She wouldn’t even have to be in _Doriath_ for the wedding, nevermind Menegroth.

It didn’t occur to her, until they were riding out and Eöl caught sight of her among the guard, that the omission had been intentional.

"Galathil!" he barked, and she drew up beside him with haste.

"My lord?" It was the safer bet. His tone did not brook _cousin._

"Can you or can you not follow orders?"

That boded ill. "I can, my lord."

"Then why are you here when I did not ask for you?"

Her horse picked up on her discomfort, jogging nervously from side to side. "I traded shifts with Meren, sir. It’s not an unusual thing for us to do—I didn’t realize it would cause a disturbance."

Eöl was not impressed. "I was very clear about keeping your quarrels out of my house. Do you think for a moment that taking you in my retinue when you’re meant to be at your brother’s wedding will not rebound upon me?"

She didn’t know what to say at first, but a tiny spark of anger kindled somewhere deep down. As if she would just run away without handling the situation! "You said you wouldn’t tell me twice. Trust that I have dealt with it, _cousin_ ; no one is expecting me."

She thought she might have gone too far; Eöl’s face was inscrutable for a long moment. At last, he said, "I hope it is so. I like having you with me on these trips, Galathil, but I won’t abide the kind of petty dramas that go on in Thingol’s court." He gave her a long look, letting her feel the full weight of his judgement, then made a dismissive gesture. "That will be all."

She nudged her mount back into place in the company before he had a chance to change his mind.


	5. Chapter 5

It was silly, of course, to think that she would see Tarîr this time—after all, she had joined Master Nidi’s service to get _away_ from Belegost, hadn’t she? And it had not been so very many years since their visit to Nan Elmoth. Still, Galathil found herself disappointed when she was not there, and realized she had been hoping despite the unlikelihood of it. In a way, the dwarf had become a sort of good-luck charm, turning up every time Galathil needed a bit of perspective.

She tried asking after Tarîr, but it was something of a hopeless quest when she spoke no useful Khuzdul. They had no interpreter—what need for one, when Eöl spoke the language, and all their needs were provided for without discussion? Galathil was disappointed to find that simply saying _Tarîr_ was not enough to go on, and the Naugrim guards and servants were much poorer at charades than her friend had been. Her attempts to indicate height, hair color, and the style of Tarîr’s braids were met only with confusion.

She gave up before too long. She had no desire for word of her seeking to come back to her fellow guards—or worse still, Eöl. She was already on thin ice with him. He had not said any more to her, but it was clear her perceived insubordination was not forgiven. When before she had been chosen most often to escort him around the city, now she found herself frequently left behind in quarters, or posted at the door overnight ‘just in case’ anyone important should come by and need to be admitted immediately. Thímben gave her sympathetic looks from time to time, but she noted he was not jumping to keep her company.

The downtime gave her far too much thinking room. She could not help but imagine what was going on now in Doriath, each step in the no-doubt extensive wedding preparations. She imagined Luthien braiding intricate designs into Artanis’ hair while the Queen looked on fondly—that might have been Galathil’s duty, in another life, one where her heart was not broken and she had any idea how to weave wedding braids. But it was, and she didn’t; so instead of running her hands through Artanis’ shining tresses, she was here whittling a lumpy fox to kill the time and trying not to think.

All at once it became too much. She would go stir-crazy just waiting around. And technically she was off-duty until Eöl returned. She thought she could navigate the streets of Belegost well enough that a brief stroll was an achievable aim.

No one stopped her as she left. In fact, no one paid her much mind at all, which seemed very strange given she was an outsider in a very closed city; but then again, she supposed if she was already inside the walls, it could be assumed she had the right to be there. At any rate, she did not even receive any curious looks until she was out on the main thoroughfare, and even then it was only fascinated stares and whispers. No one seemed inclined to hinder her progress.

She felt a little better out in the vast caverns of the city, less cooped-up and under pressure. She drifted along semi-familiar routes, finding the merchant quarter easily and then marking her turns carefully once she moved into parts of the city that were unknown to her. She found what seemed to be the dwarvish version of a public park, several beautiful natural caverns with both natural and dwarf-carved wonders inside, where a great number of people were strolling or simply relaxing. Beyond that she came across a market in full swing; she didn’t have any coin to spend, certainly not dwarvish currency, but she liked looking nonetheless.

Many of the vendors called out to her specifically, and she could not always tell whether they were pitching their wares or asking her questions about why she was there. Mostly she only shrugged, repeating that she only spoke Sindarin, that she was here with Lord Eöl’s retinue. It was hard to know if that answered their queries, but either way no one seemed hostile or discouraged her from continuing through the rows of stalls, so she went on looking.

She was sighing covetously over a display of sleek, brutally sharp hatchets, when someone lightly seized her elbow—her instinct was to jerk away, but she realized before she did that it was probably only a polite way of getting her attention by someone who could not reach to tap her on the shoulder. When she turned to glance down, there was a familiar face beaming back up at her.

“Oh!” she said, startled, “Master Nidi!” She wished now she had taken time at least to learn the Khuzdul equivalent of hello. Instead she crossed her forearms and bowed her head, as Tarîr had done on their first meeting, hoping that was sufficient.

Master Nidi smiled wider and returned the gesture, so it must have been. He said something to her, but the only word she understood was _Eöl_.

“Yes, I’m here with Lord Eöl,” she said, though of course it was useless.

Nidi said something else, loud and slowly as if he were speaking to a child, and gestured expansively. Galathil could only shake her head helplessly and shrug, which made him laugh. He gave up and gestured to her— _come, come!_ —so she allowed herself to be drawn on to his stall further down and offered a seat, taking it with a bemused smile. Nidi went on chatting, though it seemed now to be more habit than anything; he offered her a drink, which she took to be polite, then served himself as well and sat across from her, making her feel like a favored guest.

It was bewildering. Had he mistaken her for someone of greater importance? Or her errand as one with official approval? She sipped her drink nervously as Nidi spoke to one of his subordinates, sending him off to fetch something. It was pleasantly cool, lightly sweet with a faint undertone of mint; the taste settled her a little, though she had no idea what was expected of her.

Fortunately, the dwarf Nidi had sent off was back within moments, and he was not alone. He towed Tarîr along in his wake—she seemed to be in the middle of cursing him out, or at least giving him an earful, until she spotted Galathil sitting companionably across from her master and stopped dead, blinking. She looked between Galathil and Nidi, baffled.

Nidi spoke to her cheerfully, and they exchanged a series of rapidfire questions-and-answers before Tarîr looked to Galathil again. It was clear she had questions of her own, but she was in interpreter mode, only conveying what she was directed to. “Master Nidi is delighted to see you again, and bids you welcome.”

“Does he know me?” she said, smiling for Nidi’s benefit, though somewhat uneasily.

They conferred a moment, but there was a spark of amusement in Tarîr’s expression even before she got Nidi’s answer. “He recalls how excited you were to show us the accommodations. You made us welcome in your city, it’s only right that you should receive the same hospitality. Master Nidi apologizes that he did not have a taller chair prepared.”

Galathil could not help laughing at that, and Nidi looked well-pleased with her reaction. “I did not know I was coming, so there’s no way he could have! Can you tell him, though, I’m not here on my lord’s behalf? I was just exploring, off-duty.”

“Then you must join him for supper!” Tarîr translated, when the message had been conveyed. “Master Nidi insists.” Then, quickly, adding it to the end as if it were part of the translation. “And if you can slip away again tomorrow, let me buy you that keg I once promised.”

Galathil did a quick mental calculation—she had time, she thought, plenty of time before Eöl returned. “Master Nidi is too kind. I would be delighted, though I must return to my post directly after. I hope that will not cause offense?”

Tarîr snorted, but held back from giving a response, waiting for Nidi’s instead. “Elves have too many rules about supper propriety. No, he will not be offended.”

“Then I gladly accept.” _Both offers_ , she thought cheerfully, and Tarîr seemed to understand her.

If Eöl did not require her services, she would find other ways to keep busy.

~

Since she had not been a planned-for guest, Galathil was treated to far more _traditional_ dwarvish cuisine than she usually experienced; it became clear early on that what they were normally fed by the great houses they visited was a very watered-down version, carefully curated for elvish sensibilities. Galathil found herself thrilled at the opportunity, even if not all of the food agreed with her palate. Master Nidi, as it turned out, was a delightful host—he paid close attention to what she did and did not like and offered suggestions accordingly. He also made her very welcome, asking about her work and the journey and many other easy subjects that kept the conversation flowing.

It was a little strange that Tarîr was right there, speaking twice as much as either of them as she translated, and it still felt almost as if she were not present. Galathil was enjoying herself, but she also wished that Tarîr could join the conversation now and again. She’d missed the dwarf, as it turned out, and seeing her now was making her remember it without actually redressing the issue. Well, they would see one another much more tomorrow, unless Eöl had a very unlikely change of heart and requested her attendance.

Nidi shook her hand warmly as she thanked him after the meal and made her goodbyes, citing duty; he sent Tarîr to show her the way back, and expressed that she was welcome any time. It wasn’t an invitation she expected to take him up on, but it was kind of him, all the same.

At last, outside the house, Tarîr spoke as herself. It was silly for Galathil to feel glad at the sound of her voice, when she’d been hearing it all evening, but somehow she felt it regardless. “I need better news-bearers. I did not know you were even in the city!”

“I tried asking after you, but all I got were blank stares. Is Tarîr a common name?” It was strange and a bit complicated, walking side-by-side and having a conversation. She had to look a long way down, and Tarîr had to look a long way up, all the time dodging other people who were also making their way through the streets. Dwarves seemed far less shy of casually jostling one another than Elves were.

Tarîr made a vague gesture and shrugged. “I am just a forge-brick.” Seeing Galathil’s confused expression, she amended, “I don’t know what you Elves would say. It means...necessary, but not different from all the others? If one is missing, you notice the hole, but otherwise no one sees the bricks separately.”

“ _I_ see you,” Galathil protested, somewhat dismayed at the comparison, and Tarîr’s expression warmed.

“Well, maybe one brick knows another.” And then, after a beat— “I see you too, Galathil.”

She didn’t know why it was suddenly so hard to breathe, why her ribcage felt too small. It was a little smoky along this way from all the torches—maybe she had inhaled too much of the smoke. She wasn't sure what to say, so she simply gave Tarîr a tentative smile; Tarîr returned it, reaching over to touch her hand lightly, a gesture of reassurance and kindness.

Someone knocked into Galathil's far side, breaking their contact and shaking them loose of the warm, strange tension that had been there a moment before. Galathil took her hand back self-consciously, sweeping loose braids back over her shoulder just for something to do with it, and Tarîr cleared her throat and gestured to the turning they were just coming up on. "Here we are."

Galathil looked up, realizing in surprise that they had returned to the broad avenue from which she'd embarked, and not entirely sure what route they'd taken to get there. It had certainly been shorter than her original meandering path, but she doubted she could retrace it. "Will you come and fetch me tomorrow?" she asked, suddenly concerned. "I'm not sure I can find my way back."

Tarîr laughed, seeming slightly embarrassed. "I can't come to the door of a great house like that. Not even the servants' entrance. I can meet you here at the corner, though, if you tell me the hour to come."

That was the second problem—she wasn't precisely certain when Eöl would be occupied tomorrow, though it was likely to be the late afternoon. "I'll try to get away around half-three, though if you can give me a quarter-hour before giving up, I'd count it a kindness."

Tarîr relaxed again, grinning. "Why do I think this outing will not be condoned by your Lord Eöl?"

"Because you're too clever for your own good," Galathil said wryly, and Tarîr made a show of preening. "Well, I thank you for the escort, and I look forward to you drinking me under the table on the morrow."

Tarîr elbowed her cheerfully, more in the hip than in the ribs, but it was close enough to convey merry camaraderie. "Me too, _lightweight_. Me too."

Galathil took her leave, but she looked back once, when she was nearly at the great gate. There were plenty of people coming and going, many of similar height and build and coloring to Tarîr—but she had no trouble picking her friend out among them. Tarîr grinned and waved when she caught her looking, then ducked around the corner and out of sight.

Galathil returned to her post.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for any errors; I was too excited about this chapter to wait a few days and reread it a zillion times like I usually do, so it may not be proofread _quite_ as carefully as usual. If it's any consolation, this chapter is ~1200 words longer than usual.

“Why are you so _odd_ lately?” Thímben asked her the next day as she helped him into his armor. It was light and mostly decorative—Galathil could have laced into her own without assistance in less than a quarter-hour—but she knew the request was kindly meant, an excuse to talk. “It’s as if you don’t _want_ him to forgive you.”

She secured a side strap and frowned at him. “Why would you say that? I’ve done exactly as he bid me, sat down and kept quiet while the rest of you go off to escort him, stayed up at all hours guarding the door _just in case_ our long-term allies decide to murder us in the night—”

“ _Galathil_ ,” he interrupted, with great aggravation. “You elevate sullenness to an art form. When you’re in a sulk, everyone knows it. Lord Eöl knows it. The Naugrim know it. I wouldn’t be half-surprised if everyone we left behind in Nan Elmoth knows it. You don’t have to say a word or even change your expression, it comes off you in waves!”

“You’re being dramatic. I’m not in a sulk, anyway.” She smacked the heel of her hand against his breastplate to indicate she’d finished, probably a bit harder than was strictly necessary, and Thímben stepped back with a deeply skeptical expression. “I’m not! I see why he was angry, and if being left behind on a brief diplomatic trip is the worst I can expect, I should count myself lucky.”

Thímben shook his head disapprovingly. “Then you’ve just gotten above yourself. I thought he might reinstate you yesterday, but when he called for you you answered him as if you were the lady and he the guard! Your _tone_ , by Elbereth, I thought he would slap you at least!”

She could admit, grudgingly, that she _might_ have been a little shorter than one ought to be with one’s lord, even if he was also one’s cousin. But Thímben exaggerated dreadfully. Eöl wasn’t one to go lightly on disrespect, so the fact that she was still employed attested to that much. And she truly wasn’t in a sulk—if anything, she’d been better-served by her forced idleness than she would have been waiting around while her cousin made nice with important dwarf-lords, though she didn’t know it at first.

“I’m only trying to help,” Thímben said more quietly, when she didn’t respond. “I’d hate to be stuck on dwarf duty without you. Meren is a bitter bore on these trips, you know she is, and if you get permanently dismissed I’m stuck with her. And besides...I know you don’t want to go back to Menegroth. I just thought I’d warn you, before you do any more damage.”

Galathil wanted to snap at him for daring to bring up Menegroth (and by implication the things she’d left behind there), but she restrained the impulse. He _was_ trying to help, and being as delicate as someone like Thímben knew how to be. Instead she sighed and folded her arms across her chest. “I know you are. Thank you, I’ll take it under advisement.”

“Good.” He relaxed, and she realized with faint guilt that he’d been genuinely worried. “I’m off. Behave yourself while we’re gone.”

“No promises,” she said wryly. He laughed, of course; she smiled back, and kept the _if only you knew_ tucked smugly behind her teeth.

~

Galathil rarely liked to look too closely at her own motivations, but it took a special effort to avoid considering why she had packed the spidersilk shirt. Regardless of the why, there it was in her pack, rolled carefully with a pair of nicely-matched trousers. Her hands lingered over the silk, but not for very long before she pulled it out.

It was comfortable, after all, and Eöl and the rest had left with plenty of time to spare before she was due to meet Tarîr, so there was no one to ask questions about her attire. And if she rebraided her hair, well—she’d want it out of her face to go drinking, nothing wrong with that. And she’d seen a braiding style on one of the merchants yesterday that she wanted to try; now was as good a time as any.

Tarîr was just crossing the square when she stepped outside. Seeing Galathil, she picked up her pace, weaving nimbly through the crowd. Galathil envied her ease. The bustle of people seemed welcoming somehow, and she wished she could understand their ebb and flow well enough to move through the way Tarîr did. Before she could consider it too much, Tarîr had reached her and seized her hand, drawing her into the current.

“I thought, maybe, we should eat before,” she said in lieu of a greeting. “On account of your condition.”

Galathil started to protest confusion, until she saw the twinkle in Tarîr’s eye. “Being a lightweight is not a ‘condition,’” she said primly, though she was laughing.

“In Belegost we consider it a grave ailment,” Tarîr laughed back. “But I’ll look after you, _Lightweight_ , never you mind.”

Warmth bloomed in Galathil’s chest; she felt entirely unlike herself, and that was no bad thing. “More authentic dwarven cuisine, then? I hope you’ll tell me what is safe to try, since I am apparently an invalid.”

Tarîr was still holding her hand; her fingers curled briefly, softly, against Galathil’s palm, as if in pleased anticipation. “Delicate elves. Ha! No, I have...prepared something.” She glanced sidelong at Galathil. “Maybe not so grand after eating in Master Nidi’s house, but we are not merchants or lords, are we?”

“No one here but paupers,” Galathil said cheerfully. “Do you mean I’m going to see your home?”

“Not home, very much,” Tarîr replied. “Where I sleep when I am not traveling. But close enough.”

“Won’t that be enlightening!” Galathil teased.

Tarîr hip-checked her, though her hip was barely above Galathil’s knee. Galathil grinned down at her, feeling as if she’d already had a cup of dwarven cider on an empty stomach, giddy and lightheaded.

Tarîr lived a little ways outside the merchant quarter, on the third floor of a building carved directly into the rock of the mountain; it had no top or sides, only a flat facade that blended into the walls around it, each level accessed by carven stairs and shallow catwalks that ran before the doors. Many of the doors were decorated with paint or carvings, or hangings of some sort; Tarîr’s was plain, warm wood, though it was labeled with runes that may have said her name.

Inside was much the same—sparse and clean, but warm, both in temperature and feeling. For all Tarîr disclaimed it as her home, she had left her mark on the place. Galathil could stand beneath the low ceiling, but only just; Tarîr laughed and dropped a pile of cushions onto a solidly built chair, then ushered her into it. Without the cushions Galathil’s knees would have been up to her chin in the low seat, but with them she was more or less comfortable. “I did not expect such guests when I took the place,” Tarîr said, with a faintly mocking grin.

“I am pleased to flout your expectations.” Galathil winked at her, fighting the flush she could feel creeping up her throat. As expected, Tarîr laughed again, the hearty joyful bark that seemed to light up the space beneath Galathil’s sternum.

“You are also too tall for my table, lightweight. You will have to eat in your lap, I think.” She uncovered a dish upon the aforementioned table, serving out portions of something that released steam when she broke the crust. She added something from what Galathil could swear was a bread basket, then brought it over, laying one bowl across Galathil’s lap before pulling up a much more rickety chair across from her.

“I thought I was getting genuine dwarven cuisine!” Galathil teased. “There’s rice in this! And where did you get the flour for the roll? Do you have secret underground wheat fields?”

Tarîr leaned forward and swatted her knee, smiling. “Genuine Khazâd cuisine reflects genuine Khazâd culture. We _trade_ for the rice, because trade is a part of who we are.”

“All right, fair enough. But where are you getting enough wheat for—” Galathil broke off as she popped a torn-off piece of the roll into her mouth, and Tarîr crowed at her facial expression.

“Lichen flour. _That_ is local.” Tarîr seemed to rather enjoy her discomfiture.

Galathil chewed thoughtfully for a moment. It wasn’t actually _bad_ , just totally unlike the flavor she’d been expecting. She had thought it to be plain brown bread, but she could see now it had a faint greenish tinge when she lifted it to the light; the taste was earthy, as if a little bit of the rock itself had gone into the seasoning of it. “It’s a little stronger than I like. Not terrible.”

Tarîr lit up, pleased. “You put them together and it gets better. That is the trick.” She demonstrated, swiping her own roll through the rice-mushroom-cheese concoction.

Galathil mirrored her, and was pleased to find that all together, the flavors were very good indeed. It was nothing like what you got in Nan Elmoth, but somehow it still reminded her of the shadows beneath the trees, the glow of phosphorescent fungus and the disjointed sounds of hidden streams running. It was like _home_ turned into a meal.

Tarîr was still watching her, seeming to enjoy her enjoyment. Galathil was suddenly strangely self-conscious. This was dwarven food—what business did she have thinking it tasted of home? She lowered her head, studying the stew with more focus than it required, her ears warming. “It’s very good.”

Tarîr snorted. “I am no cook. You only say that because you have nothing to compare to.”

Galathil, without looking up, said, “I don’t have anything to compare any of this to. It doesn’t mean I can’t find it enchanting.”

“Any of what?” Tarîr’s voice sounded closer.

Galathil tucked her hair back from her temples, trying to cool her heated face. “Belegost. Khuzdul.” She glanced up through her lashes, and indeed, Tarîr was much nearer—on the very edge of her seat, in fact. “You.”

Tarîr’s fingertips brushed against her knee. “ _Enchanting_ ,” she repeated, as if enjoying the sound of it, or maybe just finding it an unlikely word for herself. Her smile came in again more slowly this time, and maybe _beguiling_ was the word Galathil should have used instead. “Once, you told me your alcohol was like a beautiful woman, that you wouldn’t know you were caught until too late. But I start to thinking maybe your women are like your alcohol, instead.”

Galathil could recognize a lead-in when she heard it. Part of her wanted desperately to follow that line of conversation, but another part wanted to delay it by any means possible. Her tongue decided on the latter, somewhat clumsily. “I’ve wondered, what dwarven standards of beauty are. What makes a beautiful woman in Belegost?”

Tarîr accepted the deferral with good humor, drawing back (but not too far). “Strong arms, big thighs. A flat arse and a belly of iron if you listen to the bards, but I like a lady who has a little softness, myself. A fine soft beard, of course, thick lips and a strong nose.”

Galathil’s eye was trained for different things, but she was suddenly quite aware of Tarîr’s biceps in her short-sleeved tunic, the diameter of her thighs. “Then you’re beautiful to your people too,” she said without thinking, and then bit her tongue at the awkwardness of it.

Tarîr shifted closer again, grinning unselfconsciously. “I am. And you, Galathil? Are you a beautiful elf?”

“Ha!” That shook Galathil’s embarrassment some. “I am too hard, too square, too heavy-boned for that. No, the kindest thing the bards might say about me is that I keep my hair trimmed.”

“I could say more,” Tarîr said, warm and low, and Galathil’s flush returned, though it was a less uncomfortable heat now. “For an elf, you have very fine arms. I think you could lift me, if you wanted to.” Her fingers alighted on Galathil’s knee again, then carefully stroked just above it. “Strong thighs, too. _Solid,_ ” she added, and Galathil’s heart gave a confused patter to hear a word usually employed to criticize her spoken with such admiration. “No beard, which is a dealbreaker for some, but you do have those fine braids. I expect some allowances must be made for cross-cultural appreciation.”

“I want to know who taught you the phrase _cross-cultural appreciation_ ,” Galathil laughed, because it was easier than acknowledging any of the compliments.

“Some stuffed shirt in Menegroth, when we traded there.” Tarîr’s eyes shone. “Do you want to continue comparing notes, or can I kiss you?”

Galathil nearly knocked the bowl off her lap, fumbling it back to safety at the last second, then hurriedly set it aside. “Yes. Please. I mean—I think that’s enough of a cultural lesson for now.”

There was a beat; Tarîr raised her eyebrows, eyes sparkling. “You’ll have to bend down.”

“Oh!” Galathil honestly had not blushed this much since she was far younger and sillier. ( _Since the first time you met Artanis_ , a part of her brain supplied, but even that could not ruin her mood.) She leaned forward, resting her arms on her knees, and Tarîr came in to meet her, lifting a hand to catch her chin lightly in it.

Her fingertips were soft, nothing like Galathil’s weapon-callused ones; she supposed Tarîr’s change of career had been quite long ago now in the life of a dwarf, though it seemed still very recent to Galathil. Her lips were soft also, and Galathil might have felt quite self-conscious of her own wind-chapped mouth if she were not entirely distracted by the kiss itself. She could not even really concentrate on the oddity of kissing someone with a beard; her mind was all taken up by giddiness, a feeling that this was right and complete and _inevitable_ , and there was simply no room.

Tarîr drew back just a little when the kiss ended, looking up into her face; for once she was not grinning, though her eyes were alight. “Dedicate that one to Mahal,” she murmured, her voice warm.

Galathil was pleased, if confused. “Is that a religious observance?” By Tarîr’s surprised laughter she gathered that it was not, and found that Tarîr could blush too.

“It is a saying. A joke, sort of. Sorry, it means—taking a long time to build?” She rubbed the back of her neck, looking slightly sheepish, and Galathil found that she was delighted. “There was a hall— _Dumu Mahal_ —they started delving when first we learned Mahal’s craft, to honor him for that gift and for the gift of life. A long work even at the beginning. But then, every time it comes near complete, someone thinks of new carvings to add, or finds new techniques to use, for many many years. At last it finishes a century past deadline, but it is...spectacular.” She shrugged, a smile sneaking back. “So when something good takes much longer than expected, we say… _dedicate that to Mahal_.”

“We say ‘a long time in the making.’ Although it doesn’t have a good story to it.” It took Galathil a moment to process the rest, and she looked up again, startled. “It took longer than you...expected? How long ago…?”

Tarîr laced her hands together, leaning in and resting her chin upon them. “Maybe expected is not quite right. Hoped? I was a young woman when I met you, you know.”

Galathil blinked at that. “Are you not now?”

“Ha! If you were one of my people, that would be a clumsy and false compliment. But I suppose you really do not know.” Tarîr clucked her tongue. “No, I am not young now. Not yet old either, I would like to say, but some of Master Nidi’s apprentices would argue that! Let us say, for my people, I am squarely in the middle of life.”

“Your people do not age so fast! It’s been—twenty years? Twenty-five?” They couldn’t compare in terms of lifespan, of course, but Galathil thought they were perhaps in a similar age group socially speaking. After all, weren’t they each settled into a second career, if still in search of recognition?

“Galathil.” Tarîr’s tone was less warm now, slightly incredulous. “Try fifty. Do I not look different to you?”

Dismay flared behind her teeth, trickling cold down her throat to her stomach. _Fifty_. She had thought it no great thing, that Tarîr remembered her upon their second meeting, but—how long had it been in between? Perhaps she should have realized when the dwarf was barely conversant one meeting, and nearly fluent in Sindarin the next.

_Celeborn would have known._ Her brother, the diplomat, the loremaster, would never have lost track of the years this way; and furthermore, he would have understood precisely what those years meant to a dwarf. He would have known, from all his reading, what the subtle endless changes in Tarîr’s appearance meant; not simple aesthetics, but a calendar of sorts, a book of days across her countenance counting out increments of a not-infinite life.

_Of course_ she had noticed that Tarîr looked different—wasn’t that what it was, to be shorter-lived? Forever changing? There were silver lines in her dark hair and beard now, not so far from the color of Galathil’s own, and new patterns in the creases beside her eyes, but Galathil hadn’t understood what they meant.

Even without standing in her brother’s shadow, she fell short. She’d thought she could forge her own way, be _good enough_ if never quite _great_. But even here where none of her family had ever set foot, her shortcomings eventually showed through, like gold leaf wearing off to reveal pot-metal beneath.

Not to mention she’d spent too long chastising herself and forgotten to answer, leaving Tarîr to draw the obvious conclusion. Tarîr had moved back, her body language closing off—Galathil opened her mouth to say something, too late, and Tarîr beat her to it.

“I suppose there’s not much difference to you, anyway. Quarter-century, half-century, it all goes by in a rush for elves. I should be glad you remembered my name at all.” She was not being sarcastic, but there was a bitter edge to her tone, regardless. “Maybe this all moved very fast for you, and I seem too forward.”

“No!” Galathil leaned forward, trying to bridge the gap again, to stop the split from widening any further. “I didn’t—it was the time between, not the time with you. My days are routine. I lose the number of them when they are all the same.”

“I’m glad you weren’t suffering in my absence then,” Tarîr said, a little tartly.

“No,” Galathil said again, “That isn’t—I’m not—I asked for this duty, traded for it, I took other guards’ shifts, I—that’s why I’m free to see you, I angered my lord by taking another’s place on this trip when he had deliberately excluded me. He thinks he is punishing me by leaving me behind when he goes on to the great houses, but I…” she paused, realizing the truth of it as the words left her mouth, “I thought he might return me to duty yesterday, so I was deliberately insubordinate. So that I could still be free to see you today.”

Tarîr’s expression was unreadable; she felt the need to go on, even knowing how poorly she was managing the situation.

“I should not have even expected to see you this trip, and I was still disappointed beyond measure when you didn’t turn up. I tried to ask after you but I don’t speak Khuzdul and none of our hosts speak Sindarin, not that Eöl wants us speaking to them anyway. I wasn’t even sure you were in the city and I still felt as if I’d come all this way for nothing, because I—” She broke off suddenly, embarrassed; Tarîr’s expression was different now, some kind of strain showing at the corners of her eyes and the set of her jaw, and Galathil realized she had perhaps gone too far. “I’m sorry, that’s too much.”

Tarîr closed her eyes briefly, as if gathering patience, and murmured _too much_ to herself in something like disbelief. Galathil had a moment to regret everything, but then she lifted her head, meeting Galathil’s gaze. “Too _much?_ Lightweight, I learned Sindarin for you.”

There was a kind of joy that ached almost as much as misery; Galathil found it hard to breathe for a moment, feeling as if her breastbone had collapsed in to press hard against her beating heart. “I changed the pronunciation of my name,” she stuttered out, unaware of what she was saying. “It’s better the way you say it.”

Tarîr’s humor was back, suddenly, though warmed and gentled and made tender with some other emotion now. “Not to Lightweight, I hope.”

“That can be my epessë,” Galathil found herself saying, reaching for Tarîr at the same moment Tarîr reached for her, both laughing with quiet delight as they came together in a second kiss.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops what's that two chapters in two days?? No wonder there is no editing

Galathil’s alcohol tolerance was not tested that evening—they didn’t go out, after all.

They ended up on the bed—not for any salacious reason, though a part of Galathil distantly hoped that was not off the table—but rather because there was not much furniture in Tarîr’s space, and the bed was the only place they might easily be close. Galathil sat with her back against the wall; Tarîr settled between her legs, leaning back against Galathil’s chest, and drew Galathil’s arms around her. It was easy enough to steal kisses from there, Tarîr tipping her head back and Galathil bending forward.

It was also easy to talk, for which Galathil was grateful. She had questions—confessions, too—which she might not have dared to voice if things were not just so. But she felt warm and safe with Tarîr resting against her, and less self-conscious with Tarîr’s eyes not directly on her; if it took her a little longer to find the right words, it seemed to her that for once she might be forgiven for it.

“When I asked how long…” she started at one point, haltingly, “I didn’t mean that it had been a short time since we met. I meant...I thought you wanted a friend, only. I wondered how long I misunderstood.”

Tarîr chuckled, meshing their fingers together. “I would have been more obvious with another _Khuzd_. I thought your people maybe needed more delicacy.”

“Some,” Galathil admitted, thinking of the elaborate Menegroth intrigues surrounding formal courtships. “I was never good with subtleties. One of my many shortcomings,” she added, smiling wryly to soften the self-deprecation.

“Stop that.” Tarîr tugged at one of her silver braids, a gentle reprimand. “You are what you are, nothing amiss. Now that we understand one another,” here she tipped her head back again, angling for another kiss, which Galathil happily granted, “nothing amiss at all.”

That wasn’t entirely true, but Galathil had plenty of practice at ignoring the things that loomed over her, and she was managing very tidily to ignore how many moments like this she might have wasted in taking so long to catch on. Or how few might be left, in the larger scale of things. For now the moment was endless, and she could pretend it would stay that way.

“You said Lord Eöl wanted to leave you behind, even before your latest disrespect,” Tarîr said, a note of amusement in her voice. “What mischief have you done? Am I courting a bad influence?”

“Oh, _that_.” Anyone else might not have gotten an answer, even if she’d wanted to try, but something about Tarîr made truth fall from her mouth unintended. “He thinks I’m avoiding my brother’s wedding.”

“Are you?”

“Yes.” Everyone knew, she supposed; they could hardly fail to, but she hadn’t admitted it aloud before. “Not by coming here, though. I already wrote to say not to expect me. My brother is in Menegroth, so I might have stayed in Nan Elmoth and avoided it just the same.”

“Is there some family feud there?” Tarîr twisted around partway, so that Galathil could see her earnest expression. “Is that rude to ask? I am the one child in my line. No brothers, only cousins. I don’t know how it is with them.”

“I—” Galathil wondered how to put anything in words. “Only from my side. He still thinks I could be the sister I ought to be. If I tried harder.”

Tarîr’s face hardened, though not towards Galathil. “Ah. One of that sort.”

“No,” Galathil said softly, regretfully. “It really is me. I wish he were less kind, so I could feel more justified loathing him.” She sighed. “I am very petty, in the end. I should have told you that sooner.” She drew a deep breath now, preparing to come clean; she did not think Tarîr would throw her out, though she might be disappointed to find out Galathil’s true nature. “He’s always had everything I wanted, but every bit of it was fairly earned. Position, and recognition, and respect, and even—even Artanis—”

What was _wrong_ with her, bringing up Artanis? It was as if her stupid mouth was determined upon ruining everything, the little bit of joy that she’d managed to catch hold of. Maybe it was because she knew she didn’t deserve it, maybe because—

“His bride?” Tarîr said, and she knew she had ruined everything.

“His wife now, I suppose,” she said softly, in confirmation. There was no point in lying.

Tarîr did not stiffen, or move away, or make an angry retort. Galathil started a little when she lifted their clasped hands to her mouth, kissing Galathil’s knuckles; something in her unknotted.

“You could have gone and deliberately spoiled the wedding. You could have stayed in Nan Elmoth grieving.”

“I suppose,” Galathil said doubtfully, unsure what she was getting at.

Tarîr did not immediately enlighten her. “When I started learning Sindarin, it was just...a few phrases, here and there. Small talk. Most merchants know a little, you know. I thought if we met again, I would be able to make conversation. Nothing more.”

Galathil had the sense she was meant to listen, so she kept quiet, biting down on her worry.

“I had…” Tarîr gestured vaguely; it seemed there were still words that eluded her, easily though she spoke the language now, “lovers? Is that what you would say, when things are not serious? Lovers, sometimes, during that time. Then I met Farukh, and it was very serious.”

_Don’t fall in love, Galathil,_ she remembered Tarîr saying. She wondered if Farukh was the reason.

“Farukh was more interested in my family, in the end. My cousins are important, and he thought—well, too bad for him that importance does not reach all the way to me!” Tarîr shook her head, dismissing the whole thing. “Not a story that needs telling. You know how it ended. What I mean is that after Farukh, I learned for real. I studied with a teacher. And as soon as I could pretend to be good at it, I bluffed Master Nidi into taking me on, and figured out the rest as we went.”

Despite herself, Galathil smiled. Of course she had.

“I am trying to say...you and I, Galathil, I think we are alike.”

Since Tarîr had not moved away, Galathil dared to rest her cheek against the dwarf’s silver-shot hair, tightening her arms a little to hold her. “How do you mean?”

“When we are hurt, we move forward. It is no bad thing if _forward_ is also _away from the thing that hurts_.”

Galathil took this in, her pulse thrumming in her throat, Tarîr warm and reassuring against her. Her voice came out uncertain, but not as shaky as she might have expected. “Or if forward is...towards one another?”

“Even better,” Tarîr said, turning for real this time, kneeling up so they could meet on a level. Galathil was braver this time; she dared to put her hands in Tarîr’s hair, to stroke through the softness of her beard, to appreciate the solid strength of her arms and shoulders and back as words were abandoned for kisses.

~

The evening wore away, with bursts of laughter, tender touches and kisses, awkward but genuine admissions. Galathil felt lighter here underground than ever she had in the trees, more handsome before Tarîr’s eyes than she had in her finest court clothes in Menegroth.

She may not have been able to mark the years, but she could mark the hours passing. Too soon it was drawing towards the time when she would need to return; there was too much she would have liked to do still, though the evening had been full, in its own way.

“We’re here for one day more,” she murmured, closing her eyes contentedly as Tarîr kissed her throat. “I’ll try to come if I can, but—I don’t know if—” She drew a breath as Tarîr kept on, smiling even through her worry. “Have a care, that tickles! If I can’t get away...can I write you? Will you write and tell me where the caravan is headed next? If I can get leave, I could meet you—”

“Write me either way,” Tarîr said, her voice muffled, then lifted her head with a grin. “Mahal’s beard, you elves have necks for miles. It’s like kissing a very ticklish goose.”

Galathil laughed and pinched her gently. “That’s because you can’t _find_ your neck under all that beard. It’s like I’m kissing a very compact bear.”

“Watch yourself, I bite too.” Tarîr sat back a little, reluctant though they both were to part. “I already know how to get a letter to you, so I suppose I must write first. I’ll put down the proper way to address a letter for Gabilgothol, and we’ll see how neat your Khuzdul copy-work is.”

“Penmanship has never been my chief skill, but I think I can make it legible.” Galathil touched her face, long, lingering, though she knew she had to get moving. “I’ll come and meet you tomorrow, if I may, at the same time.”

“I’ll look for you.” Tarîr kissed her again, swiftly, then shoved her gently towards the edge of the bed. “Go on, get up. I’ll take you as far as the square, wouldn’t do to get lost.”

Reluctantly, they both rose; Galathil hastily fixing a few unwound braids and fussing with her collar, Tarîr leaving herself in unapologetic disarray. There was still more than enough time, but Galathil knew if they did not go now, she would not want to go at all. The walk back was, of course, all too short; made shorter by how restrained she felt the need to be, though Tarîr kept hold of her hand, a point of contact that warmed her through.

They parted with few words; there was not much more to say, or at least, nothing that would make it smoother. Galathil would have time to change and comb her hair out before Eöl and the rest returned, maybe even eat something, and then she would have the long solitary night watch on the doors to mentally replay everything that had happened.

She slipped inside with that happy thought, and nearly missed five heads snapping up in unison as she stepped into the outer room.

_They had come back early. They had beaten her here._ Worse, the others were all dressed down, off-duty for the evening, which meant they had been back for some time.

Thímben’s face was the only one that betrayed any sympathy, shocked and pale as it was. _Where have you **been**?_ he mouthed, but before she could begin to form an excuse, Eöl appeared in the door between the rooms.

“Good of you to finally join us, guardswoman.” Not _Galathil_ or even the icily-spoken _cousin_. Galathil felt sick. “If I may have a moment of your time?”

What else could she do? She followed him through the door, trying not to cower as it snapped shut behind them.


	8. Chapter 8

“Sit.”

Galathil hesitated; every instinct told her it was unwise to sit when her lord was still on his feet, an unpardonable disrespect, even if he’d ordered her to do it.

He took a step toward her, and she shrank back from the look in his eyes. “A little late to stand on ceremony now, cousin. I said _sit_.”

Calling her _cousin_ in private was no more reassuring than calling her _guardswoman_ before the others. She dropped into a chair, fidgeting as he stood over her, leaning almost-threateningly into her space.

“I did not expect this from you, of all people. But I suppose that was my own fault. You have been clear from the beginning that family does not hold your loyalty.”

Galathil slouched a little, hot with shame, feeling a bit indignant. Did he have to bring family into it? She’d abandoned her post, true, but she hadn’t _technically_ been on duty. Calling her _disloyal_ seemed a little strong. “I shouldn’t have gone out, my lord, I know it, it just gets so claustrophobic here underground—”

He was suddenly in her face, his hands resting on the arms of the chair as he bared his teeth at her. “Do you think I am a fool?” he hissed, and Galathil abruptly closed her mouth, eyes wide with confusion. “Who have you been meeting with? Who have you been passing secrets to?”

“Secrets?” She repeated, stupidly.

“I suppose it is my own fault,” Eöl said grimly. “I knew you did not have your brother’s integrity, but I thought you did not have his wit either. I always thought if you were to betray me, it would be because you were tricked, not of genuine intent.”

The world tilted and spun; Galathil felt as if the ground beneath her had turned out to be bog instead of stone. _Betray him? What did he think she’d done?_ “I don’t know what you mean—I only wanted to see the city. I’m sorry, my lord, I know I was to stay put, but—”

“Enough of that,” he snapped. “I think we both know you won’t hold out under true interrogation. Out with it, who were you meeting with?”

Her blood chilled at the implied threat, though she couldn’t imagine what she had done to earn it. What enemies did he have here, anyway? She redoubled her efforts. “No one! Not intentionally, I ran into Master Nidi in the marketplace, but that was only chance—”

“Nidi. I see.” Eöl leaned back a bit, with the grim satisfaction of one whose suspicions have been confirmed. And then, to Galathil’s shock, he barked something at her in Khuzdul. The syllables were far uglier, far harsher in his mouth than they had ever been in Tarîr’s.

“I don’t understand,” she said hesitantly, when the silence stretched long enough that he seemed to be waiting for an answer. “The Naugrim are your friends. Nidi is your friend.”

“ _Now_ you’re concerned about listening ears?” Eöl laughed, but there was no amusement in it. Galathil did not know what he meant by it. “The Naugrim are our _allies_. I think you are perfectly aware of the difference.” He caught one of her braids, jerking her forward by it. “But I see _you_ have made friends of them, or perhaps they have made a pet of you. You make a poor spy indeed.”

Much of Galathil’s mind was still frozen with disbelief, but there was a tiny part, only half-aware, making quick calculations. Would she be able to overpower him, if it came to that? Neither of them were armed. She was stronger, she thought, but he was inarguably a more skilled fighter—would strength and surprise be enough? And if she managed, could she do it without alerting the others in the next room? How would she get out? Where would she go if she did?

There was no good end to be found on that path. Still, she tensed; if he struck her, she would strike back.

“I am very sorry for the misunderstanding,” she said as calmly as she could, though her voice shook. “I behaved poorly, but I am only a lazy guard, not a spy. I grew bored waiting around, so I went out to see the city. It was chance that I ran into Master Nidi. He remembered me as your guard, and invited me to join him for supper. That’s all. I’m sorry, my lord.”

Eöl was not appeased. He growled something else in Khuzdul; it sounded like a question, though, of course, it did not feature any of the very few words Galathil knew. After a beat, he repeated it, his anger clearly rising.

“I don’t speak Khuzdul,” Galathil whispered, frustrated and afraid. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you want from me. I’m not a spy.”

Eöl was back in her face. “Don’t you? So then Nidi has learned Sindarin?”

“No, of course not, he has a translator—” She stopped, but it was too late. Once it was out, she could not take it back, but that was not the worst of it—the worst of it was, it showed clearly on her face that she _wanted_ to. She should have gone on, pretended it was an unimportant detail, but now Eöl had seized upon it and was drawing obvious—if completely incorrect—assumptions. She tried, desperately, to mitigate the damage.

“She’s not a part of anything, I swear. I haven’t told anyone anything secret, but it’s Nidi I spoke to, she was only translating...” Galathil trailed off, because the sudden softening of Eöl’s body language was just as mystifying as his unfounded suspicions. He was not less angry, exactly, but it was as if the focus of that anger had abruptly shifted away from her. She did not understand it, and she certainly did not trust it.

“She? Oh, _cousin_.” He stepped away, shaking his head with the sort of contemptuous pity one reserved for the truly ignorant. “I see now. It did seem unlikely for you, that sort of ambition. But now it all makes sense. You do have an unfortunate habit of swooning over the worst possible candidates.”

Worse and worse. “It’s not like that,” Galathil protested, increasingly hopeless. “She didn’t do anything. _I_ didn’t do anything.”

Eöl clucked his tongue, like a parent who had been gravely disappointed. “What I should do is have your tongue torn out, Galathil, and leave you to find your own way home.” He crossed his arms, and she jumped at the movement, though he didn’t seem to notice. “I won’t, of course. I should have known your weak points better, it was stupid of me to let them be exploited so. And besides, your brother would raise a fuss with Menegroth’s king if I did.”

It was, perhaps, no more than she could expect—that even here, when all was said and done, it was the spectre of her brother’s political influence rather than her own innocence that could protect her. It was _infuriating,_ and unfair, and—

She found herself reaching for a knife that was not there, and made herself stop. There was a braver thing to do. “I said nothing to her but love-talk, my lord.” She gritted her teeth and made herself go on. “Would you like to hear the words I whispered to her, exactly as I said them, so that you may judge for yourself? It might make you uncomfortable, but I wouldn’t like to stint on measures of security.”

Eöl flicked a hand at her dismissively, and she felt what little satisfaction she had taken in speaking so dissipate. “You can deliver that report to Sídhon. He will have the charge of you until we return, at which point I will kindly provide you with an escort back to Menegroth. Sídhon!”

Galathil felt ill again. It was one thing threatening to speak such words to Eöl, wishing to make him squirm; but having to give them over to Sídhon, for him to examine and sneer over, _no_. “I will say them to you or not at all,” she tried, as Sídhon opened the door.

“As you like.” Eöl hauled her up from the chair, shoving her towards Sídhon. “Galathil is stripped of her position, effective immediately. She is not to leave or speak with anyone until we leave. Secure her away from the rest, then I’ll brief you.” Eöl paused a moment. “On second thought, secure her, and then fetch one of our hosts; I’ve heard Master Nidi is in town, and I’d like to arrange a meeting with him before we depart.”

Galathil, who had been preparing to go without a fuss—at least in front of Sídhon—turned suddenly. “ _Don’t_ ,” she said, even knowing how little bargaining power she had, “You can’t—”

He went on addressing Sídhon as if he had not heard, though the next comment was clearly directed at her. “If she is inclined to speak to you, take notes, and perhaps we can delay troubling our hosts until the morning.”

~

Nothing she said made any difference—at least, not for the better. Sídhon was worse than useless, sneering at her every attempt to tell the story until at last she launched herself at him, managing to bloody him up a bit at least before he succeeded in subduing her again. That, for obvious reasons, ended the conversation; but then again, it hadn’t been going anywhere productive anyway.

In the morning, one of the others—Saelben—relieved him. She supposed they knew better than to give her Thímben, though he probably felt no warmer towards her than the rest now. Saelben did not even speak to her, no matter how much Galathil tried to get some news out of her, unmoved by comradeship or bribery to tell her whether Eöl had made good on his threat of a meeting.

Galathil tried to reassure herself. What could he possibly do, in the heart of Belegost? Never mind endangering his alliance with its people—outright accusing a well-regarded merchant, even one of smaller means such as Master Nidi, could honestly endanger his life. And Tarîr, as one of Nidi’s people, was protected by his reputation. Eöl might have been able to subtly arrange for an _accident_ to befall one or both of them, were they in Nan Elmoth; but here, that too was suicidally unwise.

Galathil told herself firmly that he had no means of harming either of them, and tried not to doubt herself.

She ate when Saelben did, which she supposed was a mercy they didn’t have to grant her, but she was not inclined to be grateful. Sometime after the supper-meal, Sídhost took over again; they ignored one another, but Galathil was pleased to see he still looked a little rough from yesterday’s tussle.

If she could only think of some way to find out was happening—to get a message to Tarîr—but no. They would leave in the morning, and unless by some stroke of luck they literally passed Tarîr leaving the city, there was nothing to be done. Even then, what could she say in front of Eöl and all the rest of the guard that would not bolster her lord’s suspicions?

No. Her hands were tied.

When they rode out, it was with the appearance of a unified group. Galathil sat dully in the saddle, flanked watchfully by Sídhost and Saelben, and did not even try to cause a fuss.

Back in Nan Elmoth, her belongings were searched before being unceremoniously returned to her. An armed (and very much not optional) escort was provided to return her to Menegroth—fortunately it was a guard who had not been with them, who had no idea what had happened, and did not ask. Eöl reminded her icily before she departed that he did not even have to give her this much.

She could not resist the opportunity of being granted an audience, though it was not a private one, with her escort present. “Please, my lord, _please_. Just tell me that you spoke with Master Nidi and cleared everything up, that everything is well there, that you bear him no ill will.” _And Tarîr by extension._

“The matter has been handled,” he said, cutting her off. “However, if you feel the need to speak of it to anyone in Menegroth, or to reach out to _my_ allies, the Naugrim of Belegost—please consider that I can always investigate more thoroughly, and discover any more ill-advised friends you may have made.”

The implication was both effective and inscrutable. She still had no notion of whether he’d threatened Tarîr or Nidi, or harmed them somehow, or if that was only a future possibility. King Thingol might have had connections with the dwarves, but Eöl was cozier with them, for all he did not call them friends. It was entirely possible—likely, even—that he had the means to know if she did not keep her counsel, and to make good on what he threatened.

Galathil was not a good person, but she had never wanted to be a terrible one either; she couldn’t bear the thought that Tarîr, or even kind Master Nidi, would suffer on her account—if they had not already.

So she bit her tongue, and let herself be dismissed, and went home to Menegroth.


	9. Chapter 9

Their parents barely recognized her, which was a petty joy amidst Galathil’s misery.

After all, the last they’d seen her, she’d still been trying to be the docile, educated lady they hoped for—not succeeding, of course, but going through the motions. Now her hair was shorter, braided for practicality rather than fashion; she was built differently, too, muscled in ways that showed she’d gotten their father’s blood, for all he pretended otherwise. She had collected new scars from her time in Nan Elmoth too—she thought the one on her chin was quite fetching, and it had a fine battle story behind it. They could put her in a court gown all they liked, she would never pass for a soft diplomat.

But she realized something, as her mother and father struggled to find the right words to greet her, too shocked even to bother taking her to task over the matter of the missed wedding. They _couldn’t_ put her in a court gown. They couldn’t do anything.

It occurred to her right in the middle of Galadhon’s extended speech of concern, and she seized another petty pleasure: she smiled, and turned on her heel, and walked out of the hall.

She should have decided where she meant to go first. When she hesitated outside the family’s apartments, considering her next move, Celeborn caught her up.

“So it is true! I heard you’d come home.” Unlike their parents, he looked glad to see her, which made her grit her teeth.

“This isn’t home.” She chose a direction, and began striding swiftly in it, in hopes that Celeborn would leave her to it. He didn’t, of course. At least he didn’t have Artanis at his side.

“No? Our cousin’s messenger said you would be staying.” He caught up with her easily; he had always been taller, his stride longer. “Not in the family apartments, I assume,” he added, glancing over his shoulder.

Galathil sighed, and slowed a little. “Always so insightful.”

He ignored her tone, drawing alongside her. “Do you need somewhere to stay?”

She was too tired to give that the nasty reply it deserved, so she only gave him an expressionless stare.

“Well, let me know.” Never one to draw out awkward pauses, was Celeborn. “I brought you a homecoming gift.”

Galathil sighed again. “What? Hair-ribbons? A book of poetry? A needlework pillow from your wife?”

It was, as ever, infuriating how immune he was to her sarcasm. He smiled at her, as if her outburst were a joke between them and not a rude dismissal. “You know Alatariel doesn’t do needlepoint. No, it’s something I thought you’d have a bit more use for.” He handed over a small, paper-wrapped parcel, and she tore into it with lackluster enthusiasm.

It was a signet ring. _Of course_ , she thought, disgusted—he _would_ assume she’d lost her seal rather than take any meaning from the one she’d etched into the wax on the wedding reply. But when she turned it over, it wasn’t the grapes and gannet. It was a sharp diamond of a lozenge, unadorned, with the _G_ certh inside. The sigil she’d carved with her knife-point. A little more cleanly rendered, but otherwise identical.

“What is this?”

Celeborn shrugged, a gesture that seemed entirely too normal and casual for her dignified brother. “It seemed like something that might serve you well. I planned to send it to you, but then I heard you were back, so I thought I’d just bring it.” He glanced back the way they’d come and smiled slightly. “I’d expected to find you at home, but I suppose I should have known better. Still, that was remarkably quick, even for you.”

The last thing she needed was her brother’s gentle, condescending disappointment. “I’ve developed an allergy to Ada’s lecturing. Sorry I’m not the ideal daughter.”

Celeborn laughed. “No, you aren’t. You’re not the least bit sorry.”

All at once Galathil’s frustration boiled over. “What do you want from me? Why do you _do_ this?”

“Why do _you_?” Celeborn peered at her, as if he were asking a genuine question. She wanted to throttle him.

“Why do I _what_? Fail to be hopelessly impressed with you the way everyone else is? Or do you mean, why do I keep being this way, when I could be _more like you_ , if I just tried a little harder?”

A few people in the corridors had turned to stare, or else conspicuously sped up their pace to move out of earshot. Neither of them paid much attention.

Celeborn seemed frustrated at last, though he kept his own voice at a more normal level. “Why don’t you just tell me to leave you alone? Why do you make me try so hard if you dislike me so?”

Galathil clenched her fists, staring at him in outraged disbelief. “Why do I _make_ you—I _have_ told you to leave me alone!”

“No you _haven’t_ , Galathil!” Celeborn never raised his voice. Even now, it wasn’t what a normal person with actual emotions would call raised, but it was the most aggressive she’d ever heard him sound, at the least. “Every time I think I should give up, you reach out, and I think maybe you could be my sister again! I know you were upset with me when I joined the King’s council, but then you accepted when I asked you to get to know Artanis and I thought maybe you’d forgiven me. I thought it was our parents you were angry with when you left, but then you didn’t write to me once. I _missed_ you, and I couldn’t understand why you—I was half-afraid something had happened, or that my letters were going astray, so I sent to our cousin and he assured me you were well. So I thought, all right, I suppose you’ve moved on to your own grand adventure, and you don’t want to hear from me anymore, but then you sent your regrets about not coming to the wedding!” They had both stopped walking by now, staring one another down, blocking the walkway. “What do _you_ want from _me_? I don’t know how to be a better brother than this. Just tell me to give up, if that’s what you want.”

Galathil had no idea what to say to that. It was preposterous. How could it possibly have been less than clear how little she wanted to do with any of them? All right, perhaps he couldn’t have known _exactly_ what caused her leaving, but surely he must have understood that she was tired of being in his shadow all the time. Maybe he hadn’t known about her feelings for Artanis, though that seemed hard to believe, given how perceptive he was about most things. And shouldn’t it be patently obvious that when all your letters go unanswered after someone departs abruptly, that they don’t want to hear from you? Even if they have gone into a largely unknown piece of dark forest outside of the Girdle...well. Maybe the fault was not _entirely_ on her brother’s side, though she’d be damned before she’d admit it. Still, he was entirely to blame for anything but a negative reading of the single letter she’d sent back.

“You thought that letter was _reaching out_?” she said at last. “Naneth would have switched me for being that rude if she’d read it.”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “You’re always rude. I didn’t realize it was a special occasion rudeness.”

After everything, there was some small, absurd part of her that wanted to laugh. Everything came back to her brother, always. She hated it, but she supposed she didn’t entirely hate _him_. And after everything, she was too tired to muster up the energy to make herself.

“I go by Galathil now,” she said, testing. He probably wouldn’t even hear the difference—

“Galathil,” he repeated. “Dwarvish influence?”

That was too near, and not a question she could answer even if she’d wanted to. “Something like that.” She started walking again, but she was not entirely aggravated when Celeborn once again fell into step beside her.

“Very mysterious,” he said, and there was a hint of a smile at the corners of his eyes, though it didn’t show on his mouth. “Is there anything I can do for you, enigmatic sister of mine? Are you certain you don’t need a place to stay?”

She didn’t want to be indebted. She didn’t want to owe him anything. She certainly didn’t want him to think they were friends.

But where would she go? She’d burned all her bridges in Menegroth, intentionally.

“Actually,” she said, after a long pause, “do you know of anyone who might be looking for a guard?”

~

Celeborn was a problem, of course, but at least he was a problem that took her mind off of other woes now and again.

It was unspeakably galling to have to take any charity from her brother, but the alternative was worse. The fact that _he_ didn’t think of it as charity did nothing to mitigate Galathil’s irritation.

He’d spoken a good word for her to the march-wardens. She would have liked to go anonymously, but it was no leap of logic for them to put the pieces together and know she was the prodigal little sister. At least he hadn’t pulled any strings that she could discover; he’d only asked if they’d be willing to consider taking on another recruit this late in the year (normally they took on new blood at the start of spring and trained them all together), then put her forward as a candidate once the captain had agreed they could always use more underlings.

That part she didn’t mind. She’d been the bottom of the pecking order before, and there was some comfort in it—at least she knew what was expected of her. Go where she was told, when she was told, take orders, try not to do anything stupid. Her axe skills were more than adequate for the sort of small skirmishes they let recruits engage in, and she managed to neither shame or distinguish herself in any meaningful fashion. It was exactly where she liked to be, squarely in the center of average. She lived in the barracks, or slept on the ground or in a tree when she was on a patrol, and that was well enough.

She didn’t think about Belegost. She didn’t think about Belegost. She didn’t think about Belegost.

The work was no more exhausting than it had ever been, but the not-thinking took a special effort. At least she slept soundly (not peacefully, but soundly).

Sometimes there would be chatter among the guards about their pasts. Keeping close-mouthed was too mysterious, and a reason for people to take notice; Galathil preferred to talk on her own terms. No one needed to know that the gaps in her stories _were_ gaps. It was easy enough to tell tales about the foul things they’d fought in the forest beyond the influence of the Girdle, or give humorous accounts of the personalities she’d worked with, without touching too much on her previous employer or at all on the occasional interactions with Belegost and her people.

The job was easy. No one demanded much of her; she did not have to be an _entire_ person, just a vaguely companionable shell who could swing a weapon. She fit the bill perfectly.

As for Celeborn, she was dealing with him as best she could.

It seemed like it should be easy, telling him to stay out of her life. After all, she’d thought she had done it already, years ago. But somehow she was reluctant to cut off contact entirely, now that she had a notion he might actually honor the request. There was a little voice in the back of her mind asking: _what if I fail here too? Who else would help me?_ It disgusted her, the thought that even now she could let herself ask him for assistance should she need it again, but she still held back from speaking a final dismissal.

He was both busy and important in Thingol’s court, thankfully, which meant he did not have time to visit very often. When he did, she was never sure what to say to him. He tried his best, of course, because he was Celeborn, but she wondered what they possibly could have in common besides their parentage.

“Artanis misses you,” he said once. “I told her I’d invite you to supper with us some evening.”

“Artanis can’t miss me when she never met me,” she said, only half paying attention; he’d brought wine, which was clever of him, and she was happy to give it the better part of her focus. “Not the real me.”

“You think not? She sees deeper than you’d expect.” He was watching her in that way she hated, as if she were cooperating and he genuinely expected this to be a fruitful discussion.

“Tell Artanis not to look too deep, then. I’d hate to shock her.” Galathil drained her cup, poured herself another, grimaced at her brother’s smile.

“I think that would be difficult. She’s seen far more frightening things than you, little sister.”

“No doubt,” she muttered, bored of the whole conversation. “Like all of my other talents, I’m only a mediocre monster.” It was a stupid thing to say in front of Celeborn, who would almost certainly try to dissect the comment and reassure her she _wasn’t_ a monster, or wasn’t mediocre, a monologue that would bore her even more than this. She blamed the wine for her lapse.

He refrained, to her great relief and slight confusion. “As long as you’re enjoying it.”

“It doesn’t matter if you’re not horrible enough to shock a Noldo seer, as long as you try your best and have fun?” she offered, and caught herself almost returning his smile. She really needed to stop encouraging him. They weren’t and would never be friends.

“That’s the spirit.” He rose, pushing the wine bottle in her direction. ”You have the rest, I’ve got to go be diplomatic in an hour and my tongue doesn’t need any more loosening.” As if Celeborn was ever less than perfectly well-spoken, ha. “Anyway, Artanis and I will be having supper tomorrow evening with or without you, but it would be a pleasant surprise if you joined us.”

“Doubtful. Don’t let the food go cold waiting.” Galathil was relieved that the audience was at an end, and without her even having to drop rude hints about how much of her time he’d taken up. She supposed she should probably share the remaining wine with some of her off-duty fellows, but finishing the bottle alone and getting a bit of dreamless sleep sounded more appealing.

Celeborn paused for just a moment before leaving the guard-house, his hand on the door. “Galathil...if you ever want to tell me what happened in Nan Elmoth...”

“Get out,” she said, and he did.

She wasn’t upset, not really. It was just that that would have been even more of a dead-end conversation than the previous one.

~

She didn’t join them for supper, of course. Instead, she sat cross-legged on her bunk, a lap-desk across her knees, and wrote a letter.

It wasn’t the first one she had written. She wasn’t counting, but it was almost certainly the seventh; it was hard not to remember, hard not to mark each one on a mental tally sheet as she painstakingly composed them and carefully burned them.

_Tarîr,_

_I wish you could see Menegroth. It’s not at all like ~~Belegost~~ Gabilgothol, but I’m here, so I hope that recommends it at least a little._

_I hope you’re safe. If you visited me here, I would buy you better food and drink than anything we had in Nan Elmoth. I would make you meet my brother, even though he’s terrible, so you could laugh with me about him. I would beg you to teach me new words. I would spend all my coin entertaining you._

_If I never send this, you’ll stay safe. I think._

_~~Love,~~ G_


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened to Tracy Chapman's [The Promise](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cnjegFZGBDk) EXTENSIVELY while working on this chapter.

Galathil had been in Menegroth six months when she realized how colossally stupid she had been.

It was early in the afternoon, and the barracks were largely deserted. They’d just returned from a month of duty in Brethil—many of the wardens had gone off into the city to see family, or sweethearts, or simply spend a little of their well-earned wage. Galathil, having little else to occupy her, had volunteered to help the quartermaster; she was currently working her way through a pile of belts and baldrics with a lump of beeswax, spread out across a bench in the mess hall. Her captain was perched cross-legged on a table some feet away, doing the same with his own gear.

It was quiet, and calm, and for a while she felt at peace—

“I expect your brother will be promoted soon, won’t he?”

—and there it went.

Because he was her captain, she suppressed her desire to say something rude. “I suppose. Has he done something important again?”

“You haven’t gotten the city news since we returned, I see.” Cúthalion trimmed the ragged fletching on an arrow with half his attention. “Apparently he’s talked the Avari around from leaving and taking their woodlore with them.”

There had been a rising wave of tension between the Avari and the King's Sindar of late. Even Galathil had been aware of it, ignorant as she usually was of matters political; a significant percentage of the warden roster was Avari. Not that the tensions played out the same way in the guard as in the general populace—but still, one overheard things. And if they _had_ decided to leave, it would effectively cripple the wardens, so great was their number.

For once, she found herself actually interested in her brother’s work, though not because it was his.

“What did he offer them?”

“Precious little that I can tell.” The slight creasing at the corners of his eyes was the only indication of his amusement. “Haven’t you ever watched him work? I think he could unravel knots just by speaking calmly to them for a few minutes.”

“He always was a diplomat,” Galathil said sourly.

“And a problem solver.” He smiled at her scowl. The captain had a merry temper, in truth, entirely at odds with his serious features. “Don’t brood about it. He might be the sort to have in your corner during a hostage negotiation or a trade agreement, but he’s not the sibling I’d want at my side in a bar brawl.”

She ducked her head, pleased at the compliment. “He _does_ have a terrible habit of fighting fair.” Cúthalion snorted, and Galathil went back to waxing the belt in front of her. The calming rhythm of it was spoiled, though; she couldn’t help trying to imagine how Celeborn had talked down an entire faction, without even offering them any concessions.

And there was something about it that stuck, kept her mind looping around it in frustrating circles. Finally she realized it wasn’t the situation with the Avari that was bothering her, but the last thing the captain said— _the sort to have in your corner during a hostage negotiation_.

_Hostage negotiation._ Because infuriatingly serene Celeborn was absolutely the person to send when you wanted to minimize damage, to limit destruction to the bare minimum, to miraculously turn a no-win situation into one with no losses, either.

She would rather amputate her own leg than ask Celeborn for help again, but it wasn’t really asking for herself, was it? If he, with all his careful words and clever peaceable demeanor, could get a message to Tarîr without alerting Eöl—or even, hope against hope, somehow have her removed to safety—that was really just aiming his charitable instincts at someone who was in genuine danger.

The epiphany kindled a tiny flame of hope in her, but it was tempered by the terror that she was too late. It wasn’t a new fear, of course. But how much worse it would be to know she _might_ have done something, if only she had not been so stupid and stubborn?

She stood up suddenly, nearly knocking over the pile of gear. “I forgot, I have a—” she couldn’t even think of an excuse, so distracted with hope and fear. “–family emergency,” she said at last, and could not blame Cúthalion for looking amusedly skeptical. “If the quartermaster asks, I’ll be back to finish these...soon. An hour at most.” And then she was gone, sprinting out the door.

It may have been foolish to run—while time _might_ be pressing, a quarter-hour was unlikely to make a difference. She ran anyway. She’d learned some shortcuts through the twisting halls of the city, narrow spots where the natural caverns had opened into one another before they were developed, and she used all of them. People scattered to let her through as she went. It was so rare to see anyone running in this part of the city, they presumed it must be important.

It was, even if only to her.

When she arrived at Celeborn’s apartments, it was Artanis who opened the door, before Galathil had even lifted a hand to knock.

Artanis looked startled—or concerned?—and Galathil wondered how much of a wild-eyed mess she must appear. “I need to talk to my brother.”

Artanis nodded, as if that were a given. Maybe it was. Galathil had never turned up uninvited on their doorstep before—she’d barely turned up _invited_ —so it was a short leap of logic to guess that she needed something from Celeborn. “He was called away on city business, but the messenger looked far less harried than you do, so I doubt it will take long. Why don’t you come in?” Artanis had, of course, not grown any less radiant—the faint reassuring smile she gave was like the sun rising, and it still hurt.

Galathil squared her shoulders. She had suffered far worse than being smiled at by a pretty Noldo, and this was for Tarîr. She even managed an awkward “thank you” as she followed Artanis into the sitting-room.

“Tea?” Artanis asked, and then before Galathil could decline— “No, you’ll want something stronger, I think. Sit down, I’ll be back in a moment.”

Galathil hesitated, and Artanis gave her another of those heartbreakingly gentle smiles.

“Sit,” she said again. “If you don’t, you’ll pace. I know you don’t enjoy fancy-work, but there are some weaving tablets and cord in that basket, if you need a way to occupy your hands.”

Galathil wished she had a whetstone instead, but she’d come unarmed, so there were no blades to sharpen. Besides, it was probably rude to hone one’s weapons in someone else’s parlor. She fidgeted for a while after Artanis stepped out, but soon she found herself threading the tablet for a belt. No matter if it came out shoddy—Artanis would surely unravel it after she left anyway, and the motions were still familiar, keeping her nerves tamped down with the soothing monotony of repetition.

When Artanis came back, it was with a carafe of golden wine and glasses. _Do they not have servants for that?_ Galathil thought snidely, then had the decency to feel a bit ashamed of herself, given she’d come here seeking help. And given she fully intended to partake, however the wine had made its way here.

“Celeborn is on his way back. I imagine he should be here in a quarter-hour, or a little less.” Artanis handed her a glass. Galathil started to ask how she could know—there certainly had not been time to send a messenger and receive an answer back in her brief absence, though the offices of the King’s council were not _terribly_ far away—but then decided she didn’t want the answer. She accepted the glass silently; the wine fortified her a little.

_Maybe it is not too late_ , she told herself, beating down the weft with more force than necessary. _Maybe it is not too late_.

The silence grew a bit awkward, though Artanis did not seem bothered by it. She was like her husband in that, Galathil thought ruefully. Unlike him in many other respects—her fire, her commanding presence, all the reasons she had stolen Galathil’s heart in the first place—but she could be damnably patient, just like him.

Galathil could not, and seeking for a way to fill the silence made her tongue even clumsier than usual. “Artanis—” She bit her tongue, considered, tried again. “The wedding...I’m sorry I didn’t come.” She studied the lumpy rectangle of weaving that was forming beneath her fingers with far more attention than it warranted, unwilling to look up.

Artanis didn’t respond right away, but when she did speak, she sounded so genuinely pleased that Galathil knew it had been the right thing to say. “As I understand it, there was somewhere else you needed to be.”

Galathil looked up at that, distracted momentarily by a stab of guilt. “It wasn’t—I asked for that assignment, to have some excuse. I was just being...” Petty? Disobedient? Rebellious? She didn’t know what word to use.

“Nonetheless,” Artanis said in a tone more kind than she deserved, “you needed to be where you were. Celeborn said you sent your well-wishes.”

“Celeborn lied,” Galathil said quietly, shamed, but Artanis only laughed.

“I know. It’s all right.”

They sat again in silence, and this time Galathil didn’t dare try and break it for fear of what other foolish things she might say. It was not very long, though, until there were light footsteps outside in the corridor; Galathil breathed a sigh of relief to hear Celeborn’s voice at the door.

Artanis rose smoothly, showing herself out almost before Celeborn had crossed the threshold. Galathil stood too, the ends of her weaving falling forgotten from where they’d been tucked into her belt.

“I need your help,” she said to him, in lieu of a greeting.

“I should say so.”

It was not at all the answer she’d been expecting. Celeborn looked grim and agitated. Normally Galathil would have enjoyed his discomfiture, but she hadn’t done anything to cause it that she could recall, which meant it was reason for concern.

“I think,” he said gravely, “you had better tell me exactly what happened in Nan Elmoth.”

Fear spiked through her. Had something new happened? Was there some word from Eöl? She had assumed the city business he’d been called away for was something to do with the Avari situation, but what if it was about her? She couldn’t think what about the situation would require his intervention directly, but if that truly were the case, it was something even more awful than she’d previously imagined. She caught his sleeve in sudden desperation. “That’s what I came here to tell you. I haven’t—there are reasons I couldn’t speak about it before but—what is the matter? Have you heard something?”

“I’m being petitioned to turn you over.” The words hung in the air, a solid, awful weight.

She must have stumbled—he put out an arm to help her, and she took it without having the presence of mind to be angry about it. Turn her over? But Eöl had released her, and he had Tarîr to hold over her head. Why would he come for her now? He could not possibly know, could not possibly have a way of guessing how she’d finally swallowed her pride and come to the only person that might be able to help her fix this mess.

“ _Galathil_ ,” Celeborn said, and she realized distantly that he was not angry at all, only deeply worried. Worried for her? But of _course_ he was. He didn’t even know what she was accused of, or whether it was true, and still he was concerned about her for her own sake. “What did you _do_? I swear I will help you, whatever it is, but you have to tell me. I can’t defend you if I don’t know.”

He would. If no one else would help, she knew without hesitation that he would. Even if she _had_ done all Eöl claimed. “Nothing. No, really, I _swear_ it,” she insisted, at the disappointment and disbelief in his expression.

She wondered where to start, how to tell the story as quickly as possible. If Eöl was here, didn’t that mean he’d already harmed Tarîr and Nidi? What could Celeborn even do, at this late hour?

No, none of that. She could tear herself down later. For now, she had to do _something_ , even if the only result was to know for certain what had happened to them.

“I had a—friend,” she said haltingly. “A dwarf from Belegost. An interpreter. Eöl thought I was feeding her information, spying on him for her employer.” She met his eyes, desperate to be believed. “I wasn’t, Cel, I swear it. I don’t know why he would want me now, I haven’t so much as—”

“Wait.” His expression had smoothed out; Galathil had no idea what that meant, except perhaps that he did believe her. “Galathil. Our cousin isn’t after you.”

She couldn’t make sense of that. “You just said—”

“Tell me what happened.” His face was calm and kind again, which nearly made things worse. “What did you tell your friend?”

“Nothing! I mean it, nothing, but I went out to see her one afternoon when I was off-duty—I knew he didn’t want us going out, but I had no idea he’d think I was a _spy_. They returned early and I wasn’t back, so he assumed...I don’t know. I don’t even _know_ any of his secrets, even if I wanted to share them, which I don’t.” Celeborn started to say something, but now that she’d begun talking, she couldn’t seem to stop. “I was kept under guard for our last two days in Belegost, and sent here under guard. Eöl said he was doing me a kindness because of our kinship, that he would have torn anyone else’s tongue out, but if I said a single word about what had happened or tried to contact my friend again that he would hurt her, and the merchant she works for.”

Celeborn looked appalled and angry, but even she could tell it was aimed at their cousin, not at her. He reached out and clasped her by the shoulders, and she let him. “Galathil. It’s all right.”

“It’s not,” she said, despairingly, “I don’t trust him, he might have hurt them anyway, if he could manage it without the blame coming back to him. I should have told you sooner, I know I should have, I just wasn’t thinking logically—”

“Galathil.” This time he embraced her, like she was a child with a skinned knee, and though she stood tense as a bowstring she didn’t fight him or flee. “I think there’s a happy resolution to be had. We can set this right. Can you trust me, just for a bit?”

In this, at least, she found that she _did._ She knew he would never consider Tarîr—or Nidi, for that matter—acceptable collateral damage in solving the situation, so if he thought there was a chance, her own hope was greatly bolstered. Maybe there _was_ something Thingol could do? Or maybe Celeborn had contacts that could get a message through secretly? Or maybe there was something that her straightforward soldier’s brain could never come up with, some better way he knew of. Regardless, she would do whatever he asked to make it right.

She nodded, and tried not to feel guilty at how relieved he seemed. “What do I need to do?”

“Come on, I’ll show you.”

She followed him back out to the main corridor; they turned back the way he’d come from, towards the city center. “Where are we going?”

Celeborn raised an eyebrow at her, then smiled his serene frustrating smile. “Didn’t I say to trust me?”

Galathil huffed with impatience, but he had picked up the pace, so she couldn’t truly complain. They did seem to be retracing his steps, an impression that was solidified some minutes later when they took the path towards the offices of the council. His own was modest, as much as any of them were modest—she’d only been there a few times, all of them before she’d gone to Nan Elmoth, but she knew well enough which door was his, and that was clearly their destination.

Something about the way he drew himself up before opening the door made her realize that there must be someone inside waiting for them. He went through the door first, confirming her suspicions. “I think, my friends, we have sorted out the situation. I’ve brought my sister and—”

In all the commotion, she’d forgotten his earlier words to her. _I’m being petitioned to turn you over._

Her stomach knotted, and she nearly fled. But— _he wouldn’t_ , she told herself firmly. _You’ve always known that. If he says it’s all right, it will be._ Still, it was difficult to take that first step forward; Eöl’s face loomed large in her mind.

_Can you trust me, just for a bit?_

Yes. She could. She must.

She followed him inside, and the sight that greeted her was so unexpected and yet so _welcome_ that her eyes stung. There was not one person waiting inside Celeborn’s office, but many—an entire caravan, in fact.

Galathil didn’t care one bit that she was being rude, shoving past her brother in her haste to get at them. “Tarîr!”

Tarîr’s head snapped up, and the skeptical frown she had been leveling at Celeborn fell away. She leapt up from the cushion where she’d been sitting—of _course_ Celeborn would have figured out how to offer dwarf-sized seating—and threw herself at Galathil. Galathil dropped down to the floor just in time to catch her at her level. She was solid and warm and unhurt in Galathil’s arms, looking just as real and beautiful as she had in Belegost.

She was tense, though. Galathil barely had time to notice that before Tarîr was murmuring quietly in her ear— “We’ll get you out, I promise. Master Nidi is an expert negotiator, he’ll find a way—”

Galathil fell back on her heels, blinking with confusion, her hands still on Tarîr’s shoulders. “Get me out? I’m not trapped here, I’m—” She shook her head, distracted by the more important realities of the moment. “But you’re _here_ , you’re all right, I was so worried—”

It was Tarîr’s turn to be confused. “Why shouldn’t I be? I’m not the one who disappeared—”

“—I thought Eöl might have harmed you—”

“—I remembered you said your brother was someone important in Menegroth—”

“—he threatened you and Master Nidi, I was afraid if I wrote you he’d know—”

They both paused, and Tarîr shook her head, smiling. “Begin at the beginning, yes? You first.” And then, seeming to remember there were other people in the room— “Do you mind if I translate? Master Nidi said he had business in Menegroth, but I think he only did it because I said you were in trouble.”

Galathil nodded, touched, and tried to find her words.

She told them what had happened, as truly as she could. She wondered perhaps if she ought to have censored it some—she could not help but be aware that it might have significant effects on Eöl’s relationship with Belegost—but Celeborn did not interrupt her, and she had no loyalty left to her cousin. So she told it as it had happened, or at least, as it had happened from her perspective. Tarîr squeezed her hands in reassurance at more than one point in the telling, and it did wonders to offset her guilt and sorrow.

When she was finished, Tarîr gave her own account (punctuated by interjections from Master Nidi, who seemed to be following the tale entirely through Tarîr’s facial expressions and occasional hand gestures). It went something like this:

She had been disappointed, but not surprised, when Galathil had not come again before they departed from Belegost. After all, Lord Eöl had come to meet with Master Nidi, and Galathil could not very well be seen there while he was.

So he _had_ “dealt with” Nidi before they left. Clearly not in the way he’d implied, but—

“Master Nidi thought there was something odd about the conversation then,” Tarîr translated, at Nidi’s urging. “Strange sideways questions.” She half-smiled at Galathil. “I thought it was just the usual meandering nature of elves, but I suppose he was right.”

Tarîr had written, as promised. Galathil supposed that when she hadn’t received a response—

“Oh no,” said Tarîr, “but I _did_ get a response. That’s when I knew something was wrong. It was written as if...” she gestured vaguely, looking for the words. “Written like someone knew you from the outside, even knew some of what you said to me, but not—the meaning behind it. I didn’t know if it written by your hand, but I knew it wasn’t written by _you_.”

At Tarîr’s request, the caravan had made a slight detour to Nan Elmoth on their next journey. They had been welcomed there before, after all, and made some fine trades; and for all the meeting with Lord Eöl in Belegost had been strange, it had ended perfectly civilly. There was no reason to think they would not be met with hospitality.

Well, they had _tried_ to make a detour to Nan Elmoth, anyway. They had taken a wrong turn, and then another. At first it seemed like a simple mistake, but many of them had been on the previous trip. The more lost they grew, the less likely it seemed that every one of them should entirely forget the route there, until it became entirely clear that the forest itself was confounding them. And if Nan Elmoth herself was keeping them out, it must be by the Lord of Nan Elmoth’s decree.

It had left them all cross, and Tarîr even more worried than before. She’d confided her worries to Master Nidi, intending to ask for leave to go to Menegroth herself and find Galathil’s brother. Instead Nidi had claimed to have business in Menegroth, and insisted the caravan go there directly—and after all, he was paying their wages, so if he declared a change in route no one else was going to question it.

“That all makes sense,” Galathil acknowledged, “but what made you think I was a prisoner here?”

“We had to ask around to find your brother. I didn’t know his name. And when we finally got an audience with him and told him we thought you were being held against your will by Lord Eöl, all he would say was that you were here under _his_ protection. He was very cagey.” Tarîr glanced sidelong at Celeborn. “My apologies for saying so.”

“It’s a legitimate criticism,” Celeborn said, with a placid expression that probably only Galathil could read the laughter in. “I thought you had some grievance against her, and didn’t want to risk making the situation worse.”

Tarîr snorted, and gave Galathil a sympathetic look. _Diplomats!_ “So I did the only thing I could think of and asked Master Nidi to petition for your release into our custody. You know the rest.”

“And now here we are,” Galathil said quietly, swallowing around a lump in her throat, unable to stop herself from reaching out to touch Tarîr’s face. “All whole and hale and healthy.”

“If I may interrupt,” Celeborn put in, after a pause, “Master Nidi, may I invite you and your retinue to be my guests while you are in Menegroth? I’m not fluent by any means, but I know a little Khuzdul—” _of course he does,_ thought Galathil, but she couldn’t muster up the will to be anything more than amused— “in case your interpreter needs a break.”

Tarîr laughed and translated the invitation, which was happily accepted; Galathil thought, a little smugly, that Nan Elmoth’s loss might end up as Menegroth’s gain in terms of relations with the Khazad. They rose to go, Celeborn talking of supper— _genuine elvish cuisine?_ Tarîr mouthed at Galathil, then winked.

Celeborn pulled her aside, just for a moment, as they all filed out of the office. “I hope you’ll stay with us too, while you’re on leave?” And then, with a slightly impish smile, “I imagine it might be somewhat challenging to conduct a romance from the barracks. Although what do I know, guards have managed it for centuries.”

Galathil dug her elbow into his ribs, hard, but she was smiling too. “I suppose if she came all this way to rescue me, the least I can do is not make her walk all the way across the city to visit me.”

“Artanis will be delighted.”

“Oh, stop,” she said, pleased to feel no particular concern about how Artanis felt about it, and returned to Tarîr. Tarîr smiled up at her, reaching for her hand, and Galathil could only reach back.

~

“We need another guard.” Tarîr spoke as if it was an offhand thing she’d just remembered, but even Galathil, who had no sense of such conversational nuances, could tell it had been waiting behind her teeth for when she felt brave enough to blurt it out. “I know you’re settled here, and your brother said you had a position with the march-wardens, but...I know Master Nidi would take you on in a heartbeat, if you wanted.”

The house was silent; everyone else was, presumably, asleep. It felt as if there were only the two of them in all the world. Galathil propped herself up on one elbow, smiling down at Tarîr. “Well, I’ve been known to change masters before.”

The sudden hope, the _excitement_ that kindled in Tarîr’s expression, was almost too much to bear. That someone could feel so for _her_ —Galathil could hardly comprehend it. But she’d never been one to let not _deserving_ what she wanted get in the way of _having_ it.

“What was it you said?” she teased, rolling to brace herself over Tarîr, brushing aside her beard with tender trailing fingers to press a kiss to her collarbone. “More better…” she shifted down, pressing a second kiss directly over her heart, “here?”

Tarîr laughed softly, lifting a hand to cup the back of Galathil’s neck, her own light touch raising goosebumps. “Something like that, yes.”

She shifted a little, smiling against Tarîr's skin. “Or maybe it was here. Or was it—here?”

“ _Galathil_ ,” Tarîr said, her voice gone rough and low and wanting, and Galathil realized something with wonder.

Her heart felt light and full, without a single speck of salt.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Zee Avi's "[Bitter Heart](https://youtu.be/EpDXra9Zbk4)," both because the title literally fits, but also because the song intrigues me--it sounds so pleasant and content despite the lyrics! I wanted to try to do something similar with a fic, something that was about bitterness and jealousy but came across as comforting and uplifting even so. Jury's out on whether I succeeded.


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